


Storge

by JustAnotherGhostwriter



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Barnum whump, Circus troupe as family, F/M, Flawed Circus Dad P. T. Barnum, Found Families, Gen, Hurt P. T. Barnum, Hurt/Comfort, If only he'd realise his unconventional family loves him as much as he loves them, Phillip is an Honorary Barnum, Sickfic, also an entire ocean of Phin/Charity fluff, chapters 1 to 4 are full of them being in love and married, chapters 5 and 6 are the found family feels you're very probably here for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherGhostwriter/pseuds/JustAnotherGhostwriter
Summary: Five times Charity Barnum took care of her husband after he took one for the team, and one time the whole circus family helped her out.Featuring P.T. Barnum attempting to hide injuries and illness from the circus troupe, and Charity being a queen and helping take care of the physical and emotional fallout.





	1. Protestors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crown-of-the-circus-king (gay_jeans)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_jeans/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Times P. T. Barnum Took One for the Team, and One Time He Didn't Have To](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606176) by [crown-of-the-circus-king (gay_jeans)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_jeans/pseuds/crown-of-the-circus-king). 



> What can I say? Found families, musicals and childhood soulmates are three of the tropes that slam my buttons _hard_. Naturally, I obsessed about this movie. Naturally, I needed to bring whump into the mix. Sadly, there are few P.T.!Whump fic out there. And, after reading crown-of-the-circus-king’s [Five Times P.T. Barnum Took One for the Team, and One Time He Didn’t Have To](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606176/chapters/31236855) for the ninth or tenth time, I decided I needed to simultaneously feed my whump desire and help alleviate the fic shortage with my own small contribution. So I contacted the lovely author, and they gave me permission to do this remix: their fic from Charity’s POV. (And, as a cheat on my part, some circus people’s POVs in the final chapter.) 
> 
> It’s recommenced that you read the original fic first, as I don’t take a lot of time to explain each chapter’s context in this remix. And context is needed in the later chapters. Plus it’s a truly superb whump and family feels fic, which means that you are missing out if you haven’t feasted upon it, yet. 
> 
> This remix includes a fair smattering of my own headcanons, and I apologise for that in advance. Other **warnings** include mild violence, mild blood and gore and mentions of gun violence. 
> 
> A huge shoutout to mad-love-for-thegreatestshowman and smilecapsules over on Tumblr, who don’t know me from a bar of soap but whose blogs and tags I scrolled through about thirty times while writing this to get the good, pure feels. If either of you ever see this: please keep loving the Barnums and the circus crew and the movie in general, because your joy and enthusiasm are inspiring.

Charity knew something was amiss the moment she watched her husband greet their daughters. He’d barely caught their exuberant hugs before he passed both girls on to Phillip, movements casual, face set in a grin, words teasing and body language delighted as his charges sent Phillip nearly sprawling while his girls climbed over the younger man’s frame like monkeys on the bars of a cage.

 

But for one small detail, Charity could easily have convinced herself that it was just Phineas playfully nettling his apprentice or giving Phillip an excuse to be smothered in the affection he needed but did not know how to ask for. It had taken Phineas a while — longer than was usual, for him — to truly _see_ Phillip, given the fact that every time Caroline and Helen had doted on the younger man in the beginning of their acquaintance it had driven ghosts and deep pits of fear into Phineas’ eyes that Charity was worried would swallow him when he lay awake at night and let her hold him. But their daughters had proven with actions and words that they were not replacing their father for some perceived better, and Phillip had started to look at Phineas with a raw sort of hope in his eyes, and her husband had looked over his own insecurities and had _seen_ Phillip Carlyle and the yearning both men had in common.

 

As soon as Phineas had made the realisation, he started encouraging his daughters to lavish affection on Phil, and had looked to Charity with the silent askance for her to find excuses to invite Phillip over to dinners, lunches, picnics, recitals. She’d only been too happy to oblige, and the extra joy and peace Phillip brought into their home made a warm, soft room in her heart, full of music that rushed to a crescendo when Phineas caught her eye behind Phillip’s back and smiled the secret smile that was theirs alone.

 

And _that_ was the reason Charity knew something was wrong — instead of glancing at her and giving her clues with his eyes, Phineas easily diverted Helen and Caroline’s attention, stood back, and avoided her gaze completely. She proudly claimed not only the title of the first person Phineas Taylor Barnum looked at and _saw into,_ but the first person who looked at a scruffy tailor’s son and _saw him_. That had always been their magic since the first day they met as children: they could easily find each other’s souls and encourage the light nestled inside. But it also meant that she could see straight past his humbug at every turn and he, ever a guilty little boy, avoided her gaze when he wanted to hide something obvious from her, stubbornly hoping each time that she’d fall for the deception and façade like everybody else.  

 

Charity let him avoid her, for the moment, and reassured a slightly apologetic Anne that they were certainly welcome, never mind the lack of notice given her. She ushered the troupe into the extravagant sitting room, and enlisted help of some of them to fetch what they needed — as much as she admitted that she required help keeping such a large house well-run, she also dismissed the servants for the day as soon as she could, feeling more herself and more at home when she was alone with just her family. And all the while she directed circus members to find and fetch as she laid out glasses and oversaw the moving of furniture, she kept a keen eye on the man she’d married.

 

She’d seen and felt her Phin move for years; his limp was easily noticeable. As was the way he tucked himself into a far corner, away from the light, and yet still squinted. The way he jerked into himself when he reached over for his drink. The way he was obviously struggling to focus on the cards in his hands, despite having barely touched his whisky. The way others were leading the conversation and the light-hearted poker game needling, while he kept largely silent with a forced-looking grin on his face.

 

“Phillip?” Helen asked, out of the blue, and Charity watched her husband instead of her youngest, noticing the way he turned his head slowly, carefully, to look at his daughter. “Are you still going to kiss Anne when you marry her?” There was a beat of stunned silence that Phillip managed to break with a choked sound that could have been the word _pardon_. “My friend Elizabeth’s parents don’t kiss any more,” Helen explained, oblivious to the fact that Phillip and Anne, as far as Charity had heard, had not yet _officially_ started courting despite the looks and the smiles and the occasional socially-scandalous hug or hand hold. “And they’re married. And Caroline says her friends’ parents don’t kiss, either. But Mommy and Daddy do. And I want you and Anne to be like _that_.”

 

Phillip slowly started turning a very peculiar shade of red as he stared at Helen’s face, completely lost for words. And then Lettie threw back her head and let loose one of her signature belly laughs, and the awkward tension in the room broke. Helen looked caught between surprise and delight as the table full of people roared with laughter, and she looked to her father for reassurance that they were not laughing _at_ her. Phineas gave her a warm, wide smile — the first to really touch his eyes all evening — and Helen relaxed. Charity saw her husband watch his troupe laughing, and his smile turned into a chuckle. And then a wince. The latter was hidden swiftly, but Charity had caught it, and she used getting the girls to bed as an excuse to draw her husband from the room so she could finally confront him.

 

Caroline and Helen dragged their feet, unwilling to leave the fun behind, but she eventually got them to comply and then waited in the doorway for Phineas. He made a remark to get the table laughing and teasing one another again and, while they were distracted, he heaved himself to his feet. Caterpillars wriggled and squirmed in Charity’s belly as she watched the effort it took for Phineas to simply stand, and they wriggled harder at how long he lingered with his hands on the back of the chair for subtle support. He seemed, to her gaze, a little unsteady when he reached her in the doorway, but their daughters were around and so she held her peace while they tucked the girls in together.

 

She shut the girls’ bedroom door behind them with one hand, and used the other to catch her husband’s wrist. “Please tell me what’s wrong,” she whispered, trying to duck around him so she could catch his eye.

 

He tried a lacklustre smile in her direction that fooled neither of them. “It’s nothing. There is no need to worry.”

 

“Phineas —”

 

“Come. Let’s make sure our house hasn’t yet been destroyed, shall we?”

 

She let him slip out of her grasp, and wondered why the hollow, swooping feeling in her gut had become such an intimate friend to her in the past weeks. Everything _seemed_ to be finally going in their favour: Phineas had a job he loved and good people to work with. They had their childhood dream house, the girls were happy and in want of nothing, and in under a week the whole circus would be off to meet the Queen of England herself. That was sure to douse some of the negative reviews in the paper that Phineas seemed to feed off of and cower before all in one motion. So why was she more afraid than when he’d come home telling her he was out of yet another job? Why did it feel as though it was getting easier and easier to feel him slipping through her fingers as he just had?

 

“Do not borrow trouble,” she whispered to herself, firmly. “Your husband is happy. You have a beautiful home and two wonderful, healthy children. Bask in your happiness and good fortune, Charity Barnum.”

 

She returned to the poker game and kept herself busy watching or talking to other people, even though the caterpillars that remained in her gut longed for her to keep watching her husband. When the necessity of catching the last train back into town sent the troupe merrily stumbling from their property, Charity waved goodbye and then turned with only one quick glance at her husband’s rigid form that was leaning _oh_ so casually against the balcony railing. He didn’t meet her eye, and she silently set about putting the rest of the house to sleep. She was still unsure of what to do or say when she found herself at the door to their bedroom, and she hesitated for a moment before quietly slipping inside.

 

Phineas let out a muffled groan of pain, and her eyes immediately flew to where he was standing and attempting to take off his undershirt. It was far enough over his head that she saw what he’d been hiding the whole night, and the sight of the forming dark bruises made her stomach swoop.

 

“Phin,” she breathed, and he froze in his awkward, painful movements at her voice.

 

He sighed slightly when she reached him, but allowed her hands to help gently guide the shirt fully over his head. With the barrier of material gone from between them, his resigned, slightly ashamed gaze met hers.

 

“The protesters that were outside tonight… They, uh…” Charity ghosted her hands over the bruises, careful not to actually touch, her throat thick with horror and muted fear and growing anger. “We spoke using more than just words. I didn’t… The others don’t need to know.”

 

The last bit of his declaration came with a firm conviction the rest of his speech lacked, and her ghosting hands found their way to his cheeks. “Perhaps not, darling, but _I_ need to know.” The muscle in his jaw twitched beneath her fingers as she stroked his cheeks.

 

“You shouldn’t —” he started, and she placed a thumb on his lip.

 

“We do this together,” she reminded him, gentle but firm. “You take care of them and us. And I’ll take care of you.” She forced a soft smile to twitch at the corners of her lips, even though her stomach still felt heavy at the sight of him and the way he stood so unnaturally stiff. “That’s what marriage is, dear.”

 

Phineas shut his eyes and kissed her thumb lightly four times. Reluctantly, she pulled away and left him to continue undressing, instructing him not to put on his nightshirt just yet. By the time she returned with the bottle of salve he was stiffly folding away his clothes, wincing as he did so. She gently led him to bed, arranged him on the pillows and then began to rub the mixture onto his bruises. Charity tried her utmost best to be gentle, but even her best efforts couldn’t stop Phineas from wincing every now and then. She murmured apologies for the minor moments of pain, and kissed unmarked places on his skin every time the rubbing elicited an involuntary groan from her husband.

 

“I forgot how bad this smelled,” he muttered after a while, his voice even and belying how hard his jaw was grit.

 

Sensing his need for distraction, she teased, “You’re lucky. I think I’ll remember this awful smell until my dying day.”

 

He shot her the shadow of an amused look. “You never complained when I offered to rub it on you.”

 

She kissed him on the nose. “That’s because I was pregnant and very uncomfortable and the combination of this salve and my husband’s good massaging were the only things that gave relief. _Especially_ when it was Helen, and I had Caroline to carry around and care for on top of it all.”

 

“Hmm. But I’m still not convinced that — _agh_.”

 

“Sorry,” she whispered, carding her hands into his hair as he flinched away. “Sorry, that one was — Phin. What is this in your hair?”

 

There was something dry and flaky in one spot, dark enough that it was completely unnoticeable in the low candlelight. But when she brought the light closer to his head, the sight was unmistakable. Blood. Despite his protests, she went to find a rag and a basin of water, and set about carefully cleaning what she could best discern was the site of injury. As before, no matter how gentle she tried to be, she still caused him pain.

 

“I’m sorry.” She kissed the back of his neck, and he huffed out an almost-laugh for her.

 

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. But can we…” He sighed. “Let’s just sleep. It will be better in the morning.”

 

She knew it was a lie, but let him take the rag and set it aside before he settled himself gingerly in bed. She curled beside him even more cautiously, unwilling to cause him even more pain for one night. Phineas tumbled into sleep almost instantly, but she lay awake and ghosted over the bruises she could still see in the moonlight, the caterpillars turning to heavy, hollow stones low in her belly.

 

As much as she tried, Charity could not make Phineas take it easy the next morning, much less stay home from the circus. He left walking stiffly, in more pain than he’d admit to her — or to himself, most likely — and the sight of how _wrong_ he looked when he moved coloured her morning miserable. But that was nothing compared to the sight of him coming home early, limping stalwartly down the driveway, face ashen and movements as jerky as the twitching muscle of suppressed agony in his jaw. She did not ask what he told the circus as an excuse, but sent the household staff on errands that would keep them from seeing too much and then drew a deep, warm bath. They had to pause several times in the act of peeling off Phineas’ clothes, and by the end of it her heart and jaw ached in sympathy for how hard he was gritting his teeth.

 

“I don’t — Charity —” She paused in the act of pulling his arm over her shoulders so she could help him into the tub. Phineas took two deep breaths. “I…” The word petered out into a hole of shame that crept upon him like lengthening afternoon shadows. She touched the top of his head silently, waiting. “I tried not to use the parts of me that were bruised and I… I think I strained my back.”

 

She winced and breathed his name, and then took a deep, steadying breath. “Then we go slowly, darling. On three. One…”

 

Charity hoped she’d never again have to hear her husband try and swallow a groan of pain that deep, much less one that was made so close to her ear that her very toes felt the sting of sympathy and sorrow. It was slow going getting Phineas into the tub, and he had to be coaxed out again even after the water had turned completely cold.

 

“This is good practice for when we’re older,” she said, trying for levity as his back muscles trembled beneath her hands as she helped him from the tub.

 

Whatever he might have replied got swallowed in a sharp gasp of pain that dashed any humour left in her as well. Gently and slowly she dried and then applied salve to his relatively unscathed legs, and then helped him into a loose pair of trousers. She took her time with his torso and arms, going gently across the livid bruises and pausing when her fingers slipped across the smattering of scars his body bore. Charity had spent many nights tracing them and asking for the stories behind each, and she knew what it had cost him to tell the tales of some. The true, painful things always cost a lot to tell, after all, even for somebody with a silver tongue like her Phin. Perhaps _especially_ for him. And she knew to treat the gifts of those stories — of that level of vulnerability — with the value and delicacy that they deserved. She was glad none of these bruises would scar; that time would wipe them away to something hopefully forgotten.

 

Charity left his back for last, taking extra care and time to rub deep and strong the way he had for her back and feet through her pregnancies. It was because he was hurting too much to sit up straight for any longer, she knew, but when he let out a hum and sank back against her, head lolling on her shoulder, she couldn’t help but feel the knot of anxiety lessen.  

 

“Thank you,” he murmured, picking up one of her hands and kissing the knuckles despite the lingering smell and stickiness and probable taste of the salve.

 

“I love you.” She kissed his forehead, watching his eyes flutter closed in exhaustion as he played lazily with her fingers. It wasn’t going to be better for a while; the bruises would still ache. His strained back would also take days to heal. And she _knew_ him; he would neither take it easy nor admit his injury to anybody else. And his pretending to be fine would make matters worse. Charity sighed and stroked his hair. “Everybody in the circus does too, you know,” she tried.

 

As she predicted, Phineas only laughed at her incredulously, opening his eyes so she could see the wry disbelief there. “They love what I can _do_  and say; what I can offer them. And I can offer them as good a show as I can the public.”

 

She hadn’t thought it possible for her heart to hurt any more that afternoon, but it did, twisting painfully in her chest. She wished she had the words to convince Phineas that he was wrong. That he’d found true family. That he would be accepted. But she knew from years of experience that while some words stuck into Phineas’ heart and never seemed to stop wounding him, others had no affect in convincing him at all. And so she simply shifted him into a more comfortable position and rubbed his shoulders and hoped that time would prove to him that their family — both born and slowly being formed — accepted him for _him_ and not only the use they could get from him.


	2. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A virtual cookie for every read, a virtual tray of cupcakes for every kudos, and a virtual cake, complete with flaming _thank you_ candles, for every comment. I hope that chapter two lives up to expectations.

Through the years and the tremulous financial situations they’d brought, Charity had become sadly very well acquainted with the sight of her husband going without food so that the rest of the family could eat. When it had just been the two of them, she’d been able to ration him a bit more fairly, but as soon as their daughters were born the days of Phineas not eating at all became far too frequent. He’d never let it slow him down, of course — not even when he’d performed the very first of what would become his circus shows on an empty stomach, running only off of adrenalin and hope and the euphoria of the crowd’s emerging joy.

 

It had been a long time since Charity had had to worry about setting aside half of her simple meal so her husband could eat. The circus was limping and scraping by on Phillip’s savings, slowly starting to rebuild and redraw a crowd, and Charity and Phineas had agreed from the moment they’d discussed his idea to move the circus into a tent that they would not let Phillip or the girls know that their situation was currently a lot more dire than they were letting on. Their apartment was simple but homely and well-built, and keeping it was a balancing act of finances that rivalled that of some of the circus performers. But they’d made it through worse, and they were once again making it through _together_ , and they both agreed that nobody else needed to worry about things that worry would not fix.

 

And so they insisted that the circus performers be paid in full before Phineas was, made sure Caroline and Helen always had enough, and dealt with the shortfall together. Charity let Phineas take care of her more often than not, because she knew his heart needed him to be able to, but she put her foot down firmly on days he was performing after the time she found him after practice, grey-green and a few seconds from completely collapsing.

 

But that morning the breakfast she’d laid out for him, while scrambled around on the plate, was no less than what she’d served. She _knew_ Phillip was out of town until the following day and _knew_ her husband’s day would be as full of practices and shows as the previous one had been. And, suddenly, she found that she couldn’t be sure that Phineas had eaten properly when he’d come home the night before; had he not simply nibbled and then fallen, half asleep already, into bed? The sound of coughing made her head jerk up, and she hurried from the sight of the table to the front door where Phineas was pulling on his coat.

 

“Phin?”

 

He smiled at her gently and drew her into his arms. “We made a bit too much smoke last night,” he explained, not needing to hear a full question to know that she was concerned and what her concern was about. “Irritated my throat. All is well.” She craned her neck to look at him, her eyebrows raised, silently reminding him of their promise to never keep anything from each other ever again. He grinned cheekily at her and kissed her forehead. “All is well, Chairy, love. I’ll be home later tonight.”

 

Despite his reassurances, worry simmered in the back of her mind for the rest of the day and into the evening. At first, it was easy to silence with distractions and her daughters and Caroline’s dress rehearsal for her upcoming recital, but when the time Phineas was supposed to be home arrived and left with no sight or word from her husband, the feeling of anxious unease grew. Eventually she had to put the girls to bed alone, even though they both begged endlessly for just five more minutes of waiting up for their father to return home to read them to sleep as he’d promised. For all the compromises and mistakes he’d made while building up the circus, Phineas had never once broken an outright promise to his girls, not even when it meant dragging himself out of bed, still exhausted from the night before, because he’d given his word that he would take them to watch the sunrise. Their disappointment, therefore, was raw and cutting, and Charity stayed by their side until they’d both fallen asleep.

 

Once they were safely in good dreams, she began to pace, keeping her hands busy with inconsequential things that allowed her to peer into the street outside every few minutes. Every time a person or occupied carriage appeared in her line of view, she would hold her breath in anticipation, until some small sign gave the approaching man away as a stranger. She found herself, more than once, drifting towards thoughts that were born from the place of hurt Jenny Lind had opened in her heart. Those she cut apart viciously each time; that place in her had been healed by her and Phineas and time to something almost invisible, and she owed herself and her family to not let it reopen in any way. Whatever was keeping Phineas, she reminded herself firmly, it was nothing to do with disloyalty. Knowing that, however, didn’t make her any less anxious — there were enough other reasons for his late homecoming to make her unable to sit still.

 

Finally, at close to midnight, the first carriage in ages pulled up outside their apartment block, and Charity recognised the man slowly getting out as hers. Breathing a prayer of thanks, she hovered by the front door, relief making her fidgety and impatient with the long time it seemed to be taking Phin to come upstairs. Finally, he opened the front door, and she opened her mouth to greet him at once.  

 

Her relief crumpled sharply to the floor when her husband did.

 

Charity wasn’t aware of falling at his side, but her hands were suddenly on him, checking for some reason that he was sprawled in the doorway. The tiny hope that he was simply drunk was squashed at once; his eyes were glazed and unfocussed, his exhales were wheezes, his brow and chest were slick with sweat and radiating heat. As she probed, he turned his head and coughed; a harsh, barking noise that didn’t let up even as she ran soothing circles on his back.

 

“Chairy?” He tried to catch her hand and missed three times before he managed to grasp her. “Think ‘m sick,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

 

“I think it’s safe to come to that conclusion, dear,” she replied, gently, carding her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair.

 

“Don’t tell th’others, though,” he implored, and then dissolved into coughing again.

 

“Phin, sweetheart… I think they may already know.”

 

But Phineas shook his head, eyes screwing closed as he tried to get his breath back. “No. Made sure they didn’t…see.”

 

Charity took a fortifying breath, wondering at how one man could be so endearing and so frustrating with the very same action. Of course he’d forced himself to perform while sick. She wondered if his lateness was due to his hiding away until nobody was around to see him struggle home, or because he’d spent time with the troupe after the show to avoid any questions about a quick exit he could not answer. If it was the latter, she was even more sure that the whole circus, save maybe the absent Phillip, knew her husband was plagued with fever. As good as he was at pretending, there was nothing but misery, pain and weakness before her.

 

He couldn’t even rise with her help to reach the sitting room, as much as he tried to grant her gentle request. So she simply fetched pillows, pulled him a little further inside the door, made him comfortable and went to wake one of the neighbours who had a teenage son. With the promise of compensation for his efforts, she sent the boy to fetch a doctor and then returned to Phineas with water and a rag to try and alleviate the fever as much as she could while they waited.

 

He’d grown worse, or at least less coherent; even calling his name and cupping his cheek didn’t rouse him. So she put his head in her lap, and sponged his brow and neck, and hummed wordless tunes enough for both of them while he alternated between wheezing and coughing in her arms. The doctor appeared within the hour, and he and the neighbour’s son managed to carry Phineas to bed together. The neighbour’s boy was sent home, and Charity was asked to wait outside while the doctor examined her husband and she hovered, begrudgingly obedient, until Phin’s raised, hoarse voice from within had her pushing into their bedroom in concern.

 

“Mr Barnum!”

 

The doctor was trying to physically stop Phineas from attempting to get out of bed, but even when sick, Phineas was a strong man. Especially when determined. He succeeded in pushing the doctor aside and lurched upright, managing to stay that way for all of three seconds before his legs gave way beneath him and he fell sideways back onto the bed. The doctor pounced at once and pushed him further onto the bed, but Phineas fought back, arms flapping weakly and without coordination.

 

“Le…t me... You c…can’t…”

 

“ _Mr Barnum_. You will only injure yourself if you continue to —”

 

“Can’t _keep me here_ ,” Phineas wheezed, before breaking off into a coughing fit that allowed the doctor to manhandle him backwards a bit more. Phineas batted at him weakly. “M…m…my _wife…_ ” 

__

“Mr Barnum, you are confused at this present moment. Please lie still and —”

 

Phineas scored a hit in the doctor’s face. It was by no means strong, but the doctor still let go and then took a step backwards, spluttering. Charity saw that as her moment to step in, quickly. She slipped onto her side of the rickety double bed and crawled across the small space between her and her husband, slipping her arms around his shoulders.

 

“Phin? Phin, darling, please calm down. You’re alright. Everything is alright.”

 

Phineas let out a little noise of recognition and reached to her at once. “Charity.” His eyes were unfocussed and dark.

 

“I’m right here. I’m right here. So is the doctor, Phin. He’s here to help me take care of you. Will you please let him —?”

 

“This isn’t right,” Phineas insisted, shaking his head and then groaning at the movement. “Charity… this isn’t right. This isn’t… this isn’t… home.”

 

“Phin.” She worked at keeping her tone soothing as she held him, restraining his attempts to get out of bed again. “Darling, we _are_ at home right now. We’re in our bed. This is our room.”

 

“No, no, Chairy…” Another coughing fit stole his breath, and Charity rubbed his back while the doctor began taking vials out of his bag. “No,” Phineas wheezed, squeezing her hand weakly. “This… can’t be. Our house… the one we saw as children, remember? We _got it_.”

 

She couldn’t stop her face from registering her heartbreak. “Phin… we don’t live there any more. We… we moved away, remember?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Phineas said, fighting against her hold. “No, that’s… I _promised you_ that and… this place isn’t… we’re going back. I’m going to take us back…”

 

Charity held his sweaty, too-hot face in her hands as he panted, waiting for his rambling to stop and his eyes to find hers. “Do you want to take me away from here? From this place where I’m so very, very happy?”

 

She stroked his temples while he stared at her, her words and the break in her voice sifting through his delirium slowly. The fight suddenly drained right out of him, and he collapsed against her chest, still gasping for breath and boneless with exhaustion.

 

The doctor couldn’t do much, in the end, but he helped her remove Phineas’ shirt and left what he could with Charity before leaving her with her husband still mostly in her lap. She’d planned to move him when she went to sleep herself, but it didn’t take her long to realise she would not be sleeping much, that evening. Phineas struggled against fevered dreams that left him muttering nonsense and calling for her, for Phillip and Lettie, for his girls. She battled the fever as best she could, but by the time dawn broke he was still far too hot to the touch and had yet to return to coherency.

 

The kind-hearted neighbours offered to take Caroline and Helen to school, and after giving the girls the bare minimum of the news, she sent them off. She’d tried to make it light-hearted, but her exhaustion and worry had turned her attempted airy narrative into something strained and brittle that had pricked wounds in her daughters’ hearts. She swore she would rally herself enough to soothe them when they returned from school, and spent the morning dozing as much as she could in the bed beside Phineas.

 

When Caroline and Helen returned home, Charity only had the small victories of coaxing her incoherent husband to drink small sips of water to show for her afternoon of war. But she tried to make good on her promise, and played with the girls as though nothing was wrong and as though she didn’t ache with tiredness. They were more subdued, and played with each other without enthusiasm, out of lack of anything better to do, every time she paused the game to check on Phineas. She didn’t have to ask them to head to bed earlier than usual that night, but she read them an extra story, slipping outside to check on her husband in the interval between the two, and tried to do the voices as well as Phineas did to bolster some peace and hope into their dreams.

 

Her attempts didn’t work. Charity was jolted out of an uneasy doze not long after she’d managed to soothe her restless husband into sleep by a tremulous voice calling her from the doorway. She’d asked the girls not to enter the room, worried about them getting sick, and so Caroline and Helen both stood on the threshold, their eyes wide and terrified as they stared at the thankfully peaceful-looking form of their father.

 

“What’s wrong, darlings?” she whispered, scooping them close.

 

“Caroline was crying in her sleep,” Helen said, nuzzling into her neck. “And I… I kept _seeing_ things behind my eyes, Mommy. And hearing Daddy yelling. Was he yelling?”

 

“Is Daddy going to have to go to hospital like Phillip did?” Caroline whispered, her voice trembling.

 

Charity smoothed down her hair at once, keeping one arm securely around Helen. “No, darling. No; he’s going to be just fine in a day or two, you’ll see. He _was_  yelling,” she added to her youngest, “but it was because of a bad dream that the fever gave him. Look; he’s asleep and all is well.” The girls peeked inside, and Charity got lucky; Phin didn’t stir or cough once as they gazed, making him look peaceful and as though nothing at all was wrong. “And you two should also be asleep. Come on.”

 

She led them back to bed, tucked them in, checked in the closets and under the beds for any possibly lurking monsters or other creatures and then sat in a chair between their beds, holding one of their hands each as they slowly fell back asleep. Charity hummed for them, a tune she and Phineas had made up when they were small, and slowly the girls’ breathing evened out as they slipped into sleep.

 

Charity snapped awake suddenly, looking around the room and taking too long to recognise where she was. The girls’ room. With Helen’s slack hand still in her own. Gently but quickly, she eased herself off of the chair, tucking her peacefully sleeping daughters in before heading back to her room with haste. How long had she been asleep for? What had happened to Phineas in the interim? What if he’d —

 

Decided it was a good idea to get out of bed, despite the fact that his entire body was trembling like a sapling in a gale.

 

“Phin.” She startled him enough that he nearly fell down, clinging to the bedpost for support. “What are you doing, my love?” Phineas stared at her as she approached, hair slicked against his ashen face, expression uncomprehending. “Sit down,” she urged, and guided him back down to the mattress, right shoulder leaning heavily against the bottom headboard of the bed. He was still staring at her, wordlessly, and then raised a shaking hand to her cheek, fingers barely brushing her skin as though he was half afraid to touch her. “What is it?”

 

“You were gone,” he breathed at her. Even through the hoarse, wheezing quality of his voice, she could hear the devastated heartbreak, and the ache in him entered into her chest as well. “You were… I thought you’d… I thought you’d left me.” He swallowed convulsively, his hand dropping out of exhaustion even though he looked like he wanted to keep stroking her face for ages yet. “I thought you’d… You were _gone_.”

 

“I’m right here.” She slipped to her knees in front of him, taking both his hands in hers and smiling the widest, gentlest smile she could manage. “I’m not going anywhere. I was just tucking in the girls.”

 

The lost, haunted look didn’t leave his glazed eyes, and Charity realised with a painful jolt that it was the same look he’d worn when he’d first wondered if Phillip would steal his daughters’ affections. Her husband was afraid, and she was taken so off guard by the misery and darkness of his fear that she was temporarily paralysed by it.

 

“You… you should go,” Phineas muttered, looking away. “I’m not… you deserve…better.”

 

“I love you. I choose _you_. I’m staying.” She’d said as much with much more eloquence when they’d walked arm-in-arm and spoken at length on the beach after his first apology, but right at that moment neither of them had it in them for more than the summarised truths she still meant with all her heart.

 

“Charity.” He groaned her name and she gripped his hands tighter. “I… don’t _want_ you to leave. But…” She shook her head and covered the _buts_ with fingers over his chapped,warm lips. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “What if… what if _I_ end up leaving _you_?”

 

“You won’t.” It was amazing how sure she was about that fact; how strong it had been intentionally built inside of her over the past few months by both their hands. “We spoke about this a few times, remember? And I trust you, Phin. I trust you. You won’t.”

 

He shook his head, slightly, and then turned it away to cough painfully. She held on and stroked his back, a little surprised when he resisted her attempts to get him to lie back in bed despite the fact that he was swaying even while being propped up by the bed. “No… I mean… my father… my father got sick…”

 

For one moment, Charity could barely breathe at the implication. At the horrific prophesy of the future that hung in the room between them. And then she rose to her feet and pushed her surprised husband back so he landed on the pillows, positioning herself over him with one hand on his cheek.

 

“You will _not_ leave me,” she told him, firmly. “You promised too, remember? Don’t you do that to me, Barnum. You are _not_ going _anywhere_. Not from this tiny little fever.” He sighed a little, which caused another cough, and she waited it out before she demanded, “Say it, Phin.”

 

“I’m not going to leave you,” he promised, dutifully, kissing her fingers. “I’m not.”

 

Perhaps it was coincidence. Or perhaps it was Phineas’ stubbornness rising to the occasion once he had a goal to achieve and a promise to fulfil. Whatever the reason, when Charity awoke the next morning her husband’s brow was finally, blessedly cool and he was sleeping deeply in his usual position. She gave the girls the good news before sending them to school with the neighbour again, and then she crawled back into bed and slept like a large log, not caring about hunger or the smell of sweat or the household chores that awaited her.

 

Phineas was awake when she woke up — fully, truly awake. He wouldn’t let her kiss him properly, afraid of making her ill, and so she contented herself with kissing every bit of his face she could and making him laugh enough to set off a chain of coughing. Helen and Caroline couldn’t be stopped from cuddling with their father on the bed after school even by an entire imperial army, and so Charity instead made them all large doses of illness-barrier tonics and made up a game to make sure neither her daughters nor her copped out of drinking down the disgusting liquid.

 

She needn’t have worried too much; both of them would have done just about anything to remain glued to their father’s sides, heads resting on his chest even when he coughed. Phineas fell asleep like that, hands still halfway in their motion of stroking his daughters’ hair, and Charity lured them out with the promise of doing something that would help him get better. The oil they soaked his handkerchiefs in made the kitchen, their hands and the places they spilled on their clothes smell strongly of peppermint, but none of them really minded, especially when Phineas rallied strength in order to make a show about being able to breathe again just because his wonderful girls had brought him peppermint handkerchiefs.

 

For all the theatrics, he _was_ breathing easier when he fell asleep in the middle of yet another story, once again sandwiched between the girls, and he didn’t wake properly until the next morning, even though she woke up instinctively several times during the night to check on him. He was even more recovered the next morning — enough to be restless. She made him promise to stay in bed, took the girls to school and then made another stop in town on her way home. Phineas’ eyebrows raised as she emptied the contents of the big bag she’d picked up onto the bed in front of where he lay, propped up by pillows.

 

“These are the costumes that need mending. I told Phillip a while ago I’d take them to the inexpensive tailor we used for the original designs, as the tailors we took to using are still a bit of a stretch for the funds at this moment.”

 

Phineas fingered one of Teo’s shirts, silent for a moment. “What did you tell them? About me?”

 

“I sent Phillip word two days ago that family matters were keeping you home, but that you welcomed him back and wished him luck for the show.”

 

Phineas’ smile was the sun breaking through the clouds. “Thank you.” Every syllable dripped with his sincerity, but she could not enjoy his relief and joy and love because a part of her wished with fierceness that he would see that the pretence was _unnecessary_ with his friends. “ _Thank_ you.”

 

They sat side-by-side on the bed, mending costumes and talking quietly about nothing important. He’d picked up his fair share from his father, and she’d learned what she needed to from her education, and they filled gaps in each other’s knowledge and helped with what the other was unable to do alone. The professionals could do it better, but the original designs of the costumes had been Phineas’, and his familiarity with his work, combined with his personal investment in it, made the mending jobs more than passable. There was a quiet, proud contentment to him while he worked, and she found herself putting off chores so she had an excuse to stay by his side for longer. It felt like the good parts of their history, and while she was never one to want to destroy the present or the future for the past, she loved when the best parts were carried forward with them.  

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Phineas murmured to her, mostly asleep, when she crawled into bed again at the end of the tucking the girls into bed that day.

 

She’d tired him out completely by setting him in a bath so she could change the linen and his clothes, and she’d thought he’d still be asleep by the time she came to bed. “I thought we spoke about this already last night,” she told him, keeping her voice light as she tucked herself into his side.

 

“I meant that if you stay here you’ll get sick.”

 

“If the fever wasn’t smart enough to realise I was around you all the time for the past few days, then I doubt my presence will suddenly make a difference. Unless you’re trying to tell me that even your illnesses are smarter than the average man’s because they come from you?”

 

He cracked an eye open and gave her a smirk. “I just don’t want to have to nurse you,” he said, flippantly.

 

“In sickness and in health, darling.”

 

“Did I promise that? Sounds like humbug to me.”

 

Charity laughed at him, pulled his arm tighter around her, and settled into a truly peaceful night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the 1800s, people of lower classes were pretty much expected to take over the family business one day. And there were no real labour laws, so children learned the trade from their parents from a young age. By the time Phineas' father died, Phin would definitely have been taught at _least_ the basics of tailoring. 
> 
> In any case, you will have to pry the headcanon of Phineas sitting up late into the night making those first circus costumes from my cold, dead fingers. Because I'm a sap. 
> 
> Other great Fever!Barnum fic include: 
> 
> * [ Grenade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481499) by LydiaOfNarnia  
> * [indefatigable ](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14442477) by ivelostmyspectacles  
> * [Through Sickness and Health](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/13501418?view_adult=true) by RealityXIllusion  
> * [Sickness and Health](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/13568520) by dancergrl1.


	3. Broken Ribs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To you wonderful readers, kudos-givers and commentators: may you enjoy the next chapter.

The telegram came from Phil, and it explained that there had been a carriage accident, that they’d spent the night at a hospitable doctor’s house, that they were heading home as soon as they could find a carriage to take them, and that there were only minor injuries all around. Charity was sure that Phineas had made Phillip send the message because he’d known she’d worry less about the truthfulness of a report from Phil.

 

A few hours after the message arrived, W.D. stopped by to ensure she’d received the same news as he had from Phillip. They compared telegrams, found them to be identical, and she made W.D. tea so that he’d relax enough to confess whatever it was she could tell was really bothering him. It turned out he was concerned about the vaguely mentioned injuries, fearing what that meant for his sister, and for the fact that Phillip and Anne had spent the night in the same home.

 

“W.D.” Charity tried not to look too amused as she reached across their small dining room table to give his shoulder a friendly pat. “We’re talking about _Phillip._ He will never intentionally hurt Anne in any way. You know this.”

 

W.D. ducked his head, looking a little sheepish. “Yes,” he agreed, readily. “But…”

 

Charity waited for a while, but he seemed unable to put his emotions into words. So she smiled, pushed the plate of biscuits towards him and said, “There are other people with them — the doctor they mentioned. And Phineas.”

 

He gave her a sideways look and then said, with some apology in his tone, “Yes, but… Carlyle is like a son to him.”

 

“Yes. And Anne is like a daughter. He loves them enough to have done whatever was needed to protect them both. Even in the event that Phillip suddenly turned into a incubus and went on a spree after your unwilling sister.”

 

W.D. laughed, abashed but nonetheless reassured, and Charity found that giving him comfort also squashed whatever small anxieties had started to whisper in her head. The sound of a key in the front door came earlier than she had expected, and she hurried to finish washing the last of the dishes.

 

“Chairy?”

 

“In the kitchen,” she called back. “I got Phillip’s message. What happened? Is everybody alright?” She could hear footsteps coming her way, but they were uneven and slow, and her husband did not call back. “Phin?” she called in confusion, putting the last dish to dry and drying her hands on the skirt of her apron as she went to find her husband.

 

He was limping, one hand held to the wall for support, and the smile he sent her was wry, sheepish and bemused all at once, like only he could do. “Twisted my ankle,” he explained.

 

Charity winced in sympathy. “The Dunners downstairs have an icebox. I’ll go and ask for some ice.”

 

Phineas frowned at her. “Wasn’t Earl Dunner the one who threw slops at Lettie and Charles the last time they came over?”

 

“Even more reason to force him to give us something out of goodwill,” Charity countered. “Take a seat; I’ll be right back.”

 

Mrs Dunner was slightly more pleasant than her husband, and only threw a few snide comments Charity’s way as she went to fetch the ice. Charity thanked her politely and found Phineas halfway down the flight of stairs, leaning on the banister in a position where he could overhear their conversation. She gave him a little exasperated look, but his frown at the Dunners’ door stayed in place.

 

“Their ice, unlike their hearts, is still pure,” she told him, gently. “And none of what she said made any impact on my feelings whatsoever.”  

 

When he still glowered, she kissed his cheek, melting his expression into a soft smile for her. The ascent was slow, and something about how much difficulty he was having didn’t sit well with her. But she stayed silent and patient, knowing it would come to light soon, and led Phineas by the hand back into their home. His breathing was harsh, his limp much more pronounced and then, without warning, she felt him wobble dangerously as they reached the door to the sitting room. She turned automatically to give more support, wrapping her arms around his waist as he stumbled.

 

Phineas’ cry of pain was immediate, and choked, and his full weight crashed into her, sending them both to the ground.

 

“Phineas!” She was slightly winded, and more than slightly surprised. “What…?”

 

He didn’t answer at once, face screwed up and arms curled protectively around his middle. Alarmed, Charity placed her hands on his nearest shoulder, feeling his quick, harsh breathing tremble through his body. The disappointed realisation that Phillip had lied to her — that Phineas was quite badly injured — was swiftly swallowed up by wry realisation that Phillip probably didn’t even know. That was, after all, the usual modus operandi of her impossible, frustrating husband. Phineas slowly unwrapped one arm from around his middle and placed his hand on her knee.

 

“Sorry,” he panted. “Are you alright?”

 

“I am. But you are not.” He gave her a humourless twitch of an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “What happened?”

 

She’d sighed several times by the time he was done explaining about the accident and keeping his injuries from Phillip and Anne and riding to find help and carrying the driver around and the painful journey back home in the carriage. She understood, as a mother and as his best friend, why he’d done it. But she also gave her promise not to tell anyone with reluctance. Especially when she saw how much it cost him to rise and limp to the nearest chair, teeth grit and breaths coming out in harsh hisses.

 

“This is becoming a pattern, Phin.” She took his hand in both of hers.

 

“All coincidence,” he protested.

 

“Perhaps the injuries and the illness were random, yes. But pushing yourself when you should be resting, making your body do what it cannot just to lie to people who care about you… That is a choice. And it’s one I don’t approve of. Because it’s foolish.”

 

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes and didn’t answer, either, playing with her fingers absently. “They’re mine to protect,” he said, finally.

 

Charity tipped his face up, gently, so he’d meet her eyes, hoping he’d see the fondness that was blooming like Spring in her. “What are you protecting them _from_ by keeping this from them, Phin? Your humanity? Your fallibility?” He shook his head wordlessly and she mirrored the action. “Think about it, will you? So that I don’t have to watch you in agony, performing shows with broken ribs.”

 

“Both Phillip and Anne are unable to perform for a while,” he countered, stubbornness creeping into his voice. “And we cannot close our doors.”

 

“There are no doors on a tent,” she reminded him, dryly, and he gave her an unamused look in return. “You can improvise for a while. Just until Phillip is able to take over as ringmaster again. And then you can share the burden with him once _you_ are better. Please just think about it,” she said over whatever he was going to reply next. “Please?”

 

Even his sigh was shallow; an attempt not to jostle his ribs. But he touched her cheek with fondness and promised to do as she’d asked.

 

The ice helped the swelling go down on his ankle nicely, but he refused to let her go back to the Dunners to ask for more for his ribs. At first she thought it was his pride and dislike for how the couple treated those dear to him, but she soon realised it was because he’d also managed to catch cold on top of everything. She worried, as she fetched the girls from school, about coughing with broken ribs, and that her pleas would not keep Phineas from returning to the ring before he was ready.

 

Helen and Caroline were both dismayed when she told them their father was ill and a little bruised from an accident that had also hurt Phillip and Anne, and they insisted on stopping by a candy store to spend some of their birthday money on sweets for the three injured parties. They went to Anne first, and both she and W.D. were delighted by their concern and the gifts. Charity told them only about Phineas’ ankle and cold, insinuating he was a lot less worse for wear than he actually was. She trusted W.D. to send the word to the rest of the circus troupe, and accepted his wishes for Phineas’ recovery with genuine thanks.

 

While Anne had been sitting with her broken ankle propped up, Phillip took more after the other ringmaster in his approach to healing: Charity found him limping painfully around his small apartment. He was much easier to convince to sit down and stay down than Phineas, however; something for which she was grateful. He, too, heard only the abridged version of Phineas’ aliments, and she promised she’d pass on Phillip’s well-wishes as well.

 

“Tell him not to worry,” Phillip added as he finished hugging the girls goodbye and listened to Charity’s insistence not to rise and see them to the door. “Liza — the doctor we stayed with — said I’d be walking again within two days, and probably able to perform within a week or so. I’ll make arrangements until then.”

 

Charity smiled at him, bemused. “Can I have that in writing? Or in the form of some chains to keep him to the bed?”

 

Phillip laughed at her, knowingly. “Remind him that I own fifty percent of the business, and I’m telling him as his partner to stay home and not infect any of the remaining performers with his cold. If that doesn’t work, telegram for me.” They shared a laugh, before Phillip became suddenly serious. “If you need _anything_ , telegram for me,” he insisted. “Even just somebody to take the girls somewhere nice for an afternoon.”

 

She told him she would, and hoped that one day Phineas would allow himself to accept how much his circus cared for him. And to accept how loving a person made you genuinely _want_ to be there for them when they needed help. _One day_ seemed a little further in the future than she would like — she returned home to find Phineas half on his feet attempting to complete his portion of the household chores. She held her tongue while their daughters were around, and felt the usual sunlight and warmth flood through her at Phineas’ delight at their gifts and stories from school and very gentle embraces. Most people, Charity had found, yearned for love and acceptance in some way. For her Phin, they were the driving passion of his soul; a wild flame that often threatened to fully consume him. The idea of being an unwanted inconvenience — a nobody whom nobody could attain value from — was the perceived storm he constantly fought, even when his eyes on thunderclouds made him unable to see his flames injuring him and those closest to him.

 

It was a sad, exasperating truth that, in his attempts not to inconvenience people he cared about so that they would _continue_  to care about him, Phineas blocked any opportunities for those people to show him their care.

 

Words would not help, but actions would. Actions and patience and time, and wasn’t it so lucky, then, that this stubborn, impossibly frustrating man held her soul and heart in his hands? She’d have her forever to show him, time and time again, that she would care for him as much as he did for her. So she made a game of the household chores, as she usually did to both entertain the girls and get the work done at the same time. This time, she included Phineas’ portion as well, and soon got him sitting and resting and even smiling as his children painted their enthusiastic magic around him. So she found excuses to keep him sitting throughout the evening, and even an excuse to send him upstairs first so that the girls would not see him struggle. So she distracted the girls for a while and went to their bedroom to help him out of a sweat-dampened shirt, moving slowly and with soft reassurances every time a movement caused him to groan. So she made their house smell of peppermint, soaking handkerchiefs to help keep the cold from worsening. So she put a pillow behind his back when he sat on the chair between the girls’ beds, reading them to sleep, and offered her arm to him as support when they left for their own room.

 

“Do you want to sleep in this shirt?” Charity asked him, wanting to save him from the pain of changing yet again.

 

Phineas nodded at her, tired and sore and flagging as the illness started to take a better hold of him. She helped him remove his shoes and socks so he did not have to bend, and put him to bed. His protests of making her sick were ignored, as per usual. One day her luck would run out, she knew, but she prayed it would not be when he could still barely move. The last thing he needed was to think he had to force himself through the pain to take care of her and the girls while she was ill.

 

Some indiscriminate sound woke her in the depth of the night. Her sleepy hand met nothing but mattress, and when she rolled over she found the bed empty save herself. Phineas was up — if one could call the strange half lean he was doing against the bedpost _upright_. There was an odd sound scuffling in the quiet of the room, and it made Charity’s stomach swoop even before she identified it as something wrong with her husband’s breathing.

 

“Darling?”

 

He jerked a little in surprise and immediately began wiping at his face. “Ugh, Chairy… Go back to sleep, love.”

 

Instead, she crawled over the length of the bed and then stood in front of him, hands reaching for his shoulders. Realising that Phineas was wiping away _tears_ was akin to a physical blow in the chest.

 

“What’s wrong? What is it?” He shook his head. “Phineas, darling…”

 

He let out a parody of a laugh; barely a ghost of breath that hitched and made him grit his teeth. “Hurts,” he said, succinctly. “To lie down,” he clarified a moment later.

 

She had no words to give in return, so she simply helped brace him and let her heart break as his laboured, pained breathing continued. When his knees began to wobble, she guided him back to the bed and then went on a hunt for every spare pillow the house possessed.

 

“Better?” she asked, once he was propped up as best he could be.

 

“Charity Barnum.” He cupped her face with both hands and brought her forehead closer so he could kiss it. “You are… the most wonderful, resourceful, patient woman on the planet. _Thank you_. I love you.”

 

“I love you, too, Phineas Taylor Barnum.” She traced the contours of his face in the dark, knowing every curve as though it was her own name. “I love you, too. I just wish you would stop giving me so many opportunities to show that love in this exact way.”

 

He laughed, then groaned as the action jarred his ribs, and she apologised with a kiss before curling across his lap and letting him lull her to sleep with his hands in her hair. He insisted on getting up the next morning, but took things slowly, hand on the wall for support as he moved around the house. She caught the moment he reached automatically for the plates on the top shelf and folded into himself with a cry of pain he could not smother. Calling out a reassurance to the girls in the next room, Charity went to his side and helped brace him as he rode out the agony.

 

“Please go and join your daughters at the table,” she begged him, quietly.

 

It was a mark of how much pain he was in that he nodded without a protest and moved to do as she asked before biting off another groan, arm instinctively going to his middle. “Moved too fast,” he panted, his eyes shut. “Ugh… this is… inconvenient.”

 

Charity looped an arm through his and let him lean on her on the way to the table, depositing him in a chair to the wide eyes of his girls. And then she left _him_ to reassure away their worry; as much as she’d support his decision not to tell others how injured he was, she also wanted him to deal with some of the consequences of his actions. Lest he decide, on a future occasion, to be even more ridiculous with his health in the name of protecting those who were his to protect. There was, after all, a thin line to tread. She pretended not to notice him slipping the girls a sweet each from the pile they’d gifted him the day before, and did not voice her worry that she would come home to find him gone to the circus or otherwise straining his injuries.  

 

But when she returned he was reclined on the sofa, composing a letter of instructions to Phillip. The first line demanded that the younger man rest, and she had to hide a smile at the endearing hypocrisy.

 

“Thank you,” she said, placing a kiss on his brow.

 

He blinked at her, surprised. “For?”

 

“Staying.” She touched his unruly curls. “Always for staying.”

 

She put the letter in the post for him when he was done, refusing to let him rise now that he’d regained some colour, but she did then allow him to pull her on the couch beside him after making him swear that it would not hurt. The world outside their window was not a very pleasant view, but they could still hear laughter and singing and the occasional tenacious bird. Despite it being mid-morning, Charity found herself content to laze, sleepily, at her husband’s side, as though the rest of the world outside the smell of peppermint did not exist. This time, he’d let her keep him safe. He would heal. All would be well.

 

“If I should think of love,” Phineas said, suddenly, voice quiet and rich despite his injuries and the lurking illness. Her heart fluttered in anticipation. She’d always loved that poem, but she’d never found true, awestruck delight in the words until she’d heard them murmured by his voice into her ear. “I'd think of you, your arms uplifted, tying your hair in plaits above. The lyre shape of your arms and shoulders; the soft curve of your winding head.” His hands gently pulled the pins from her hair so that he could run the strands through his fingers luxuriously. “No melody is sweeter, nor could Orpheus so have bewitched. I think of this…” He paused, and she smiled and tipped her face so her nose pressed against his wrist, basking in the glorious promise of the next words. Never had they been so heavy with meaning collected from days in the circus, from mistakes, from realisations. “I think of this, and all my universe becomes _perfection_. But were you in my arms, dear love, the happiness would take my breath away. No thought could match that ecstasy, _no_ _song_  encompass it, no other worlds.”

 

Charity curled her hand gently over Phineas’ heart and spoke the last couplet with him. 

“If I should think of love, I'd think of you.”


	4. Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you for reading this. Yes, you. 
> 
> Just a tip from my many, many years of babysitting children between the ages of four and thirteen: children are very often startlingly observant, astoundingly wise and able to form solutions that are unclouded by our adult attempts to over-logic everything. They also just happen to love shoving things up their noses and into wall sockets at the same time. _Never_ underestimate the wisdom of young children; Caroline and Helen will continue to drive this fact home for you in the coming chapters.

The general public consensus surrounding their marriage was that Phineas made all the mistakes, and Charity dealt with them. But while it was certainly true that Phineas’ faults and failures were more public and more far-reaching — more in the spotlight, so to speak — Charity knew she was many steps short of holy herself. She, too, had hurt her husband on more than one occasion. Sometimes on purpose. She, too, made mistakes.

 

And her latest mistake, she realised as soon as she woke up alone in a bed made for two, was agreeing with Phineas’ decision to distance himself from his family for a while. She’d told herself the night before that his absence was best for the girls; that they deserved to deal with the violence they had witnessed without the perpetrator around. She’d told herself they’d need time to reconcile the father they’d always known with the man they’d seen in the alley, and time to work up the bravery to trust him never to do the same to them. She told herself _she_ would have felt afraid letting a man with violence on his fists sleep next to her in her bed.

 

And perhaps, just perhaps, she had been right. Perhaps her daughter’s subdued, tearful questions whether their Daddy would ever come home again were allowed to remain innocent because they’d had time to process what they’d seen. Perhaps the acute, agonising sense of loneliness she felt when she woke — worse than she’d felt when Phineas had been away with Jenny Lind on tour — was allowed to live in her chest because she’d given herself a night to miss him in order to reassure herself she still desperately wanted him around forever. Perhaps the lack of immediate reminders allowed her stories of knights and cowboys who sometimes used swords and guns to truly, really do violence to dragons and bad men to settle with the intended lesson and healing in her daughter’s hearts.

 

Perhaps. She would never know for sure. But as soon as she opened her eyes from sleep she _knew_ , with acute certainty, that her actions had wounded her husband in ways she’d possibly never be able to fix. Perhaps she should have kept him away for the evening, but she should _never_ have done so in a way that had answered his unspoken question within a question with _that_  answer. He’d asked her, silently, whether he was still good enough to love. And she had chosen to speak an answer that did not carry with it the underlying, passionate, unchanging reminder that he was. What that must have done to her Phin…

 

Not one for indulging in self-flagellation, Charity looked herself in the mirror, acknowledged she’d been allowed to feel shocked and uncertain and scared by what she’d seen, and forgave herself for her error. Then she roused the children, went through a slightly altered morning routine and dropped them off at school, promising that both parents would be there to meet them in the afternoon.

 

This caused some hesitance and worry. “But… Mommy…” Helen glanced at her big sister for help.

 

“What if those men come again?” Caroline asked in a small voice. “Will Daddy have to…?”

 

Charity knelt in front of them and scooped them both into her arms. “What happened yesterday was a mistake. Your father was protecting you, and then he went too far. He should have stopped punching, but he didn’t. It was a wrong thing to do, and he knows it. He is sorry, as I’m sure he’ll tell you himself. And we’ll help him never do it again. Do you understand?” Two sure nods.  

 

“But…he won’t let them get _us_ , will he?” Helen asked.

 

“No. Never. And nor will I. Or Phillip. Or anybody else. We will _always_ make sure you are safe.”

 

They kissed her goodbye, and she bought time by watching them disappear, and then by walking as slowly as she could to the docks. Her stomach was churning in worry and shame and the hesitance born from the memories of all she’d seen the day before. Eventually, however, she reached the circus, and she steeled her shoulders and went in search of her husband. He was not in the set of inter-joined Romani caravans he’d turned into his and Phillips’ offices, even though there was evidence of at least one person having slept there. So she turned instead to the large tent, slipping in the side entrance. She heard the distant sound of her husband’s voice calling instructions to somebody at once, and, with a deep breath, she followed it.

 

Some of the trapeze artists were in the ring in training clothes, holding on to ropes set in a formation Charity had not yet seen. She couldn’t see much from her position mostly behind the scenes, but she figured they were trying out a new act. Phineas was standing a little to the side, focusing on something behind the scenes intently.

 

“You’re sure those new riggings are set up correctly?” he called. A man Charity did not know turned from the ropes and called an affirmative. “Have you checked?” Phineas prompted, and the man gave a few ropes a sarcastic tug.

 

She caught the huge eye-roll her husband gave as he turned back to his performers, and she decided to settle on a bucket to watch. This was the kind of conversation they needed time to have, and she didn’t want him torn between her and the time the man hired to set up the rigging was billing him for. The new act was raw and a little shaky in places, but Charity could see the magic Phineas was seeing when he looked at it; the final product that would take breaths away. He conversed with the trapeze artists, traded some suggestions for changes back and forth, and then asked them to do the act again.

 

Charity didn’t notice anything wrong — not until a shaky voice yelled from the rafters, “My rope’s giving too much! I think… I think it’s about to snap!”

 

There was a second of nothing, and then action exploded. Voices yelled for performers to come and make a human net while those in the air tried to swing and reach the woman to try and pull her onto the safety of their ropes. And Phineas took off like a shot, bolting behind the scenes to where the ropes met the weights, expression grim. Charity stood, alarm begging her to do something, even though she knew she could not, and her heart nearly stopped when the woman screamed. Her descent was sharply halted, and she barely managed to keep holding on. The rope slipped some more and people called her name and suggestions and encouragements, which only grew in fervour as another few slips happened.

 

People gathered beneath her, encouraging her to let go, and there was a collective sigh of relief as she fell safely into their arms. A babble of shaky-relieved talking started that was suddenly cut across by the sound of her husband yelling. Quite a few heads turned instantly; Phineas very rarely truly angered, and when he did it was an emotion characterised by a cold, distant deadness that contrasted spectacularly with the way he expressed everything else. It was part of the reason Charity had been so shaken the day before; including that event, she could count on one hand how many times she’d seen her husband ever lose his temper.

 

He was yelling then, though, words of anger and, she knew him well enough to tell, fear directed at the man hired to set up the rigging. She found him standing amongst the weights, holding tightly to the frayed end of a rope whose weight lay on its side on the floor. From what Charity could infer from Phineas’ words and the scene before her, the rope had frayed and snapped away from its weight. If Phineas hadn’t been there to grab it, the woman on the other end would have fallen straight to the floor. At the height she’d been at, she would have been gravely injured.

 

Phineas let go of the rope and took a step toward the man, still seething, and the man flinched away. It was the move of a guilty conscience, but Phineas rocked back like _he’d_ been slapped. Charity watched all the fight and energy drain out of her husband; watched the demons from the night before crawl all over him and cause his shoulders to bow under the weight. She’d known him for long enough to know the bitter disgust with which he viewed himself in his head, and she made a direct path towards him to fulfil her goal of coming there that morning.

 

“You’re dismissed,” Phineas told the man hollowly. “Tell your boss to send somebody else to replace this.” He heard her approaching, assumed she was part of the show, and turned to her. “Nobody else up there until —”

 

He cut short as soon as he realised it was her, and her pace slowed. He watched her approach silently, eyes slightly large and face weary, unsure. Phillip broke the moment slightly by appearing and demanding to know what happened. Anne filled him in while Charity and Phineas remained silent, searching each other’s eyes. She wondered what soundless conversation he was having with her in his head. She wondered how soon she could fold herself into his arms again; how long it would take before he let her hold him close and sooth him again. Phillip asked Phineas some questions, his eyes darting in worry between his partner and Charity. It was painfully, endearingly obvious he was dying to help the situation but had no idea how. He hovered protectively around Phineas’ shoulder, rambling about nothing of real importance by then, stealing compassionate glances at Charity the whole time, half looking like he wanted to hover protectively around her as well.

 

Any other day, she would be swallowing a smile as Phineas gave her a bemused, fond look that seemed to say, _what are we going to do about our boy, Chairy_? That day, the smile felt too weak to come, and Phineas’ face was nothing but closed-off stone with tormented-storm eyes.

 

“ — and then we can always just — P.T.! Your _hands._ ”

 

Phineas blinked and raised his hands in confusion, brow furrowing as he looked down at the appendages. Thin ribbons of blood trickled over them from his palms, which were red and raw in one, thick stripe down the middle. The ropes, Charity realised with a swooping stomach. They’d cut into him when he’d tried to stop the woman from falling. Phillip called Anne over, and after taking a look she gently guided Phineas to a seat on the nearest bleachers. She sent a worried Phillip to get water, and called to the other trapeze artists for wrappings. Charity sat beside her uncharacteristically silent husband, close enough to almost touch, and watched as Anne bathed the wounds, apologising softly every time Phineas jerked in pain. His knuckles, Charity saw, were also torn and bloody and raw; his hands had to be in a great deal of pain. With gentle, practised movements, Anne wrapped his hands, giving him instructions not to use them for a day or two to let the skin on both sides heal.

 

“Thank you, Anne.” He managed to give her a half-smile.

 

“No problem, Mr Barnum.” Anne smiled back in the way that made the room feel lighter, and touched an uninjured part of Phineas’ hand affectionately. “Phil, can I ask for your help with something, please?”  

 

“I — sure — are you going to be okay?” he asked Phineas even as Anne took his arm and began propelling him firmly away.

 

Phineas gave Phillip’s parting form a reassurance, but as soon as Phillip and Anne disappeared from sight, his shoulders curled in until he was hunched almost completely over. He wouldn’t look at Charity, and his shame was almost tangible.

 

“Charity… I… I’m so…”

 

“I forgive you. Phineas.” She tipped his face toward her and then kept her hand there, cupping his face. She felt it as he swallowed twice, roughly. There was the prickle of stubble beneath her fingers, and haunted shadows of a sleepless night beneath her eyes. “I forgive you. You made a mistake. We both know that. But —”

 

“Another one,” he interjected, bitterly. “And this one worse than the rest. How many more, Charity? And what if the next _mistake_ hurts Helen or Caroline? What if I… what if…”

 

“You can look into people — see past the things other people have labelled as monstrous or wrong or unnatural — and you can see their true worth inside. Even when theythemselves don’t see it. And you help call it out of them, Phin. You don’t give up on the light and the magic that you see, and you don’t let _them_ give up, either. But…” She smiled, sadly. “The human eye cannot turn all the way around and look into the body it sits in, can it? So that’s why, my love, it’s hard for you to do to yourself what you do for others. So let us be your mirrors, Phineas. Please. I know I am prone to fanciful, socially scandalous thoughts and actions, but I know I never would have married and continued loving a man who was not _good —_ who did not love exuberantly and fully.”

 

“I hurt Phillip,” Phineas whispered, his heartbreak in every syllable.

 

“You did not set out to hurt Phillip. And he, too, has forgiven you.” Phineas tried to turn away, but she caught his face and held on fiercely. “Let us forgive you, please? Let us help show you where you are wrong. Mirrors, Phineas. Mirrors. It’s just one more thing that this… this… _family_ does for each other.” His eyes searched hers, emotions flickering wildly. But he was looking. He was holding on right back; not letting go. “And… I need to ask you to forgive me, too.”

 

“For _what_? You have done _nothing_. Nothing but good, ever. Nothing but put up with me. Nothing but —”

 

“— insinuate that you were not good enough to be around your children. Or your wife,” Charity broke in, firmly. “That was my mistake, Phin. You are a _good_ man.” She stopped him from interrupting and turning away, putting all of her desperate conviction into her words. “You are a _good_ man, and I should have let you come home. Where you belong. Where you _deserve_ to be. Please will you forgive me for that?”

 

“Charity —”

 

“Please?”

 

“Everything I have done these past years has pointed to the contrary of me being a _good man_.” His voice cracked with bitter anger and deep sadness.

 

“Everything?” she questioned, softly. “These people? This place? All the moments you were a wonderful father and a brilliant husband? Bringing joy and love? Or have you forgotten those because you’re focused too hard on the other, fallible side that all humans carry within themselves? You are by no means perfect. But you do not _ever_ give up on making amends and trying again to be who you are inside.”

 

“ _Charity_  —”

 

“Please, Phin. Please forgive me. As I have you.”

 

He swallowed again a few times, brows furrowed, and she let him think and process, her thumbs tracing his scratchy jaw. Eventually he sighed. “I forgive you, Chairy.”

 

Either she slipped into his arms or he gently tugged her there; either way, it was the result that mattered. Her head still fit perfectly into the crook in his neck and his hands, even when bandaged, were gentle as they touched her back, her head, her cheek. Aware that they were in public, they didn’t remain in the embrace for long. But Charity also did not leave Phineas’ side for the rest of the morning or beginning part of the afternoon. There was a part of her that still remembered the man from the day before, and a part of him that caused him to still gave her glances every now and again with wary, uncertain eyes. She was determined not to let those parts have their way; determined to stay close when slipping to another room would be easier.

 

And, slowly, the proximity helped — helped them relax, helped them fall back into the well-oiled motions and mechanics they’d built around each other over the years. Helped her, too, to replace the images of his hands doing violent things with all the good, clever, gentle things his hands did on a regular basis as they acted out the intentions of his heart. And when he fumbled that day — when the bandages and wounds hindered him — Charity stepped in. She held what he could not, opened what he could not, fastened what he could not, adjusted what he could not, clapped when he could not. It was an odd kind of addition to the healing taking place between them, but it was precious and wonderful and significant in ways she’d treasure for a long time after the day had passed.

 

Phineas was jittering so nervously that he was making the arm she had hooked into his shake. Before them, girls were pouring out of the small school building in neat little lines, knowing full well they had to still behave while that close to the institution. Charity placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm, but it did as little to convince him that his children would not run in terror at the sight of him as her earlier words had. And, truth be told, she was a little wary as well; unsure how to navigate this meeting, but completely unwilling to back down from staring her fear in the face.

 

She spotted Helen first, and watched as her youngest called for Caroline, eyes sweeping past her mother to land on her father. Caroline appeared almost at once, face anxious where Helen’s was just delighted. They both started forwards at a brisk clip but, when they were only a few feet away, they suddenly stopped. Their expressions, trained on their father, turned wide-eyed, anxious and unsure, and Charity felt Phineas stiffen beside her.

 

“Girls?” Charity called to them, forcing lightness and curiosity into her tone.

 

“Daddy…” Helen whispered, still looking at him with big eyes. “Your _hands_ …”

 

“They’re alright,” Phineas said with a painful looking approximation of his usual smile. “There was just… a little problem at the circus, this morning. Anne fixed me up.”

 

“So… it’s…” Helen glanced at her big sister, but Caroline was quiet and pensive, gaze oddly calculating for a girl her age. “It’s not because of…the bad men?” Phineas swallowed and shook his head, looking unable to speak. Helen took a hesitant step forward. “You’re not… _really_ hurt?”

 

Phineas shook his head again and both girls relaxed visibly. Helen’s expression turned back to its usual sunniness and she launched herself on her father without preamble. Phineas was so surprised he barely managed to catch her. And the stupefied expression didn’t leave while Helen told them all about her day, giggling as she found the stubble on her father’s jaw and the ticklish-scratchy feeling it left on her fingertips. Caroline was still slightly more reserved, and took her mother’s free hand while Helen hung onto her father’s other side — gently, and minding his bandages, as Charity instructed her. She also spoke about her day, but Charity was aware of the distinction between her daughters’ reactions, and aware that Phineas noticed it just as acutely as she did.

 

“Time, darling. Give it time,” she whispered to him as they neared the circus, giving him a peck on the cheek.

 

The plan was just to stop by for one last task and then to leave as a family, but Phineas got pulled into a discussion with the boss of the rigging company regarding the events of the morning, and the girls found their place amongst the all-too-delighted circus troupe. Charity couldn’t find it in her to drag them away, so they settled amongst the tables and joined in on the fun for the rest of the afternoon. Phineas, Charity noticed, kept stealing little, pained glances at Caroline until he finally called her over when Helen was distracted learning to jumprope backwards.

 

Charity moved closer to the corner where Phineas knelt before Caroline, wanting to hear how the conversation went for herself but without alerting either to her presence. Phineas was apologising, haltingly, for the day before, trying to make meaning of it for his little girl when he didn’t really have meaning himself. Desperate for her to forgive him, when he wasn’t quite sure he deserved it.

 

“And I know… I don’t expect you to just forget about it. If you feel… If you don’t want to hug me, that’s fine. If you feel… scared of me then…”

 

Caroline’s face puckered into confusion. “Scared of you, Daddy?” Phineas nodded, and Caroline shook her head. “I’m not. And I…” She hesitated, trying to find words. Phineas remained very still and very quiet. “I didn’t want… I know that when I’m sad and hurting inside, sometimes Helen tries to make me happy and it doesn’t work. It just makes it worse, because I really just want to be left alone. So I didn’t want...I didn’t want both Helen _and_ I to make it worse for you today.” Charity saw herself in the way her eldest reached out and touched the circles underneath her father’s eyes. “You looked _so sad_ ,” Caroline whispered.

 

Phineas squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he pulled Caroline into his arms. She clung on tight, easing something in Charity’s chest. They _were_ going to be fine. Phineas murmured something she couldn’t make out into Caroline’s hair, and their eldest pulled away.

 

“Daddy. Do you still love Helen and I when we do bad things?”

 

“Of course,” Phineas said at once, eyebrows furrowing.

 

“Even when it’s on purpose? And when we hurt each other? And when we can’t really fix what we did?”

 

“I’ll love you both forever, with everything, no matter what,” he said, fiercely.

 

Caroline smiled at him. “Just like we’ll love you no matter what. Goes both ways, Daddy.”

 

The surprise and slight awe that swooped through Charity showed plainly on Phineas’ face, and she couldn’t help but laugh to herself as Caroline kissed him and then returned to the fun and games with a little skip. Slowly, still looking bowled over, Phineas got to his feet. Charity slipped her arm into his, warmth and love radiating in her chest for her husband and her daughter who was so often wise beyond her years.

 

“She inherited the wisdom from me,” she teased.

 

Phineas’ laugh was choked with budding tears and he slipped an arm around her waist so they could watch their girls play, utterly at peace.

 

Playtime turned to story time, with various members of the group chosen to tell a tale. Some of them, Charity could tell, were edited heavily for Caroline’s and Helen’s sakes, and she amused herself with the looks of alarm on people’s faces when they realised that the section already on their lips had to be fabricated some on the spot. It was, simply, a wonderful afternoon spent laughing together, most of which she spent leaning against Phineas’ chest in the same comfortable, unashamed manner in which Anne leant against Phillip’s just beside her. But when it came to the time designated for Phineas to tell a story, the ringleader was absent from the group after having being called to some business outside.

 

“Mommy, you can go first, then,” Caroline said, eagerly. “You can tell us _the_ story.”

 

“Oh, yes, please!” Helen cried, nearly poking Lettie in the eye as she waved her hands in excitement.

 

“The story?” Charity feigned innocence. “Which one? The story about the girl who ate all her vegetables?”

 

“No,” Helen laughed.

 

“The one about the dancing princesses?”

 

“ _Mom,”_ Caroline laugh-whined. “Th-eeeeee story. Please!”

 

“Oh, alright, then.” Caoline came to sit at her feet, face alight and eager. “Once upon a time,” Charity said, placing one hand on the side of her daughter’s head as she spoke, “not too long or too far from here, there lived a princess. Her castle was big and beautiful and on the edge of an ocean, and she had sunlight and rose gardens for the day and the sound of the ocean singing to her at night. She had dresses as beautiful as peacock feathers, all the yummiest foods you can imagine and a bed big enough for seven little girls. But the problem was there were not seven little girls who slept in it — there was only one.”

 

“She was lonely,” Helen piped up, and her sister turned around to shush her.

 

Charity nodded at Helen with a small smile. “That’s right, sweetheart. The princess had a lot of things, but she had no brothers or sisters. And all the friends she was allowed to see were also princes and princesses, who had to stand or sit next to their parents quietly when they were visiting. The king and queen and all the people paid to clean the castle or teach the princess her lessons were far too busy to be her friend. One or two of them listened for a while when she pointed out the pretty song of a bird, or when she wanted to share what she’d just read in a book. But what she really, _really_ wanted was somebody to dance with. Being taught how to dance was her favourite lesson of all, but the king and queen told her that she had to wait until she was older before she could do all she’d learned with other people. And she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to have somebody to sneak out her bedroom window with; somebody to take out under the moon and the stars and to dance with to the song of the ocean.”

 

“Because night was her favourite time of day,” Helen piped up again, and Caroline threw her another _look_.

 

Charity and some of the others present laughed, and she quietened her eldest’s ire with a gentle hand on her head. “Oh, yes. She _loved_ the night time. That was when all the rules and the rushing of the day went to sleep. That was when the moon and stars made magic look _real_. The time when she could almost imagine being somebody from the books she read or the stories some of the grown ups told her. But, alas, for a long time her wish did not come true. And _then_.” Charity paused for effect and saw, to her amusement, that most of the circus troupe subtly shifted forward as well in the silence. “One day, when the princess was ten, the king invited a tailor to the castle to make new robes. The tailor brought an apprentice with him: a son just two years older than the princess. At first, she thought nothing of the small, quiet boy who helped his father work. But the town they lived in was a fair distance from the castle, and the king let the tailor and his son stay the night in the servant’s quarters when the appointment went on too late.

 

Not knowing she had extra ears and eyes to be careful of, the princess slipped out of her bedroom window as usual that night. The moon was full, and even though she had nobody to dance with, she wanted to go to the soft sand on the beach and _pretend_. But the tailor’s son heard the noise she made as she climbed down the wall and threw open the window to investigate. The princess got such a shock to see somebody’s head appear right beside her that she slipped and would have fallen if the tailor’s boy had not caught her. The princess was afraid he would tell somebody of her sneaking out, and she begged him to keep her escape route and her nightly escape destination a secret. And, even though he’d only just met her, the tailor’s son agreed. On _one_ condition.” Charity raised her eyebrows quizzically at her girls.

 

“That she took him with her,” both Caroline and Helen chorused.  

 

“So the princess took the tailor’s son to her special spot on the beach, and instead of laughing at her he lay beside her on the sand and told her stories about the stars. The princess had never _heard_ such tales before, and she was breathless with wonder by the time he was done. ‘How do you know such tales?’ she cried. ‘Surely you must be magic in order to speak to the stars!’ The boy sat up and looked at her, and the princess was sure nobody had given her a look quite like that one in her whole life. She felt like she was being _seen_ ; as though she suddenly existed as bright as the stars around them. ‘I have magic, but it’s not to speak to the stars. Those are only stories I made up to make myself less lonely at night,’ he told her. ‘But I have magic eyes, Princess. I can look into a person and see the magic living inside of them, and I can help them set it free. And I see magic in _you_.’

 

“The princess couldn’t quite believe what he was saying; she didn’t feel like she had any magic at all. But the boy with the magic eyes begged her to give him a chance, and she had so enjoyed their time together that she agreed to keep seeing him and letting him try to pull the magic out of her. ‘But if so, then I want something in return for my trust,’ she told him, for she was a very bold princess. ‘I want somebody to dance with.’ The boy with the magic eyes agreed.

 

“And, from then on, they would make plans to see each other as often as possible. Every time the tailor came to visit the king or queen or the kings and queens that lived in the castles nearby, the boy with the magic eyes would go along and sneak off to meet the princess. Sometimes, they got moments to speak during the day in hidden corners. But, often, the boy would have to slip away from his ride home so he could spend the night in a nearby castle ruin he made almost his own. They would meet on the beach, and the princess would bring him food and then she would teach him to dance under the stars and the moon. He learned quickly, and made her laugh, and told her stories woven with magic. But he never seemed to make her able to _do_  magic; nor did he seem to try very hard. He seemed content to forget about his first promise and stick only to his second, the one about dancing with the princess as long as she wanted next to the ocean.

 

“The princess never reminded him of his quest to find the magic in her, because she was scared once he knew he’d failed that he’d stop hiding away so he could see her at night. They’d become the very best of friends, and the princess knew no other person in the world understood her and cared for her as truly and fully as the boy with magic eyes did.”

 

“And then the princess got sent away!” Helen cried. “And the boy had to wri—”

 

“ _Helen_ ,” Caroline complained. “Let _Mom_ tell the story!”

 

Helen pouted and opened her mouth petulantly, so Charity spoke up quickly to avoid a bicker. “But all too soon, the time for her to be sent away to a special school came about. The princess did not want to go. She knew the schools turned princesses into queens, and while that was fine for some girls who wanted it, the princess did _not_ want to have her future end in that way. But she could not say no; it was the law of the land that she go, and that she leave her boy with the magic eyes behind. As she left, however, he promised that he would find a way to write to her. And, true to his word, he did — at least two letters a week, arriving in the post just for her, full of stories of his day or more made-up stories or full of plans for his future that were as full of magic as he was. The letters kept the princess happy when the lessons she was forced to attend made her sad. Somehow, even though the boy with the magic eyes was far away, he managed to pour enough of his magic into the paper that she felt like she wasn’t alone any more every time she read a letter.

 

“And.” Charity paused for effect again. “Slowly, gently, without her noticing so much, the princess began to change in the smallest little ways. On one day, she found herself disagreeing with a teacher. On another, she found herself sneaking a book she wasn’t supposed to read out to the gardens with her. On yet another, she found herself planning a future where she didn’t have to marry the prince her parents chose for her to marry. The other princesses at the school noticed her changing, and they did not understand why on earth a princess would _want_ to be different from what she was supposed to be.”

 

“Small minded people,” Caroline mumbled.

 

Charity smiled warmly at her daughter. “The princess learned to ignore them; learned to quiet their voices with the remembered sound of the ocean and the memory of the boy with the magic eyes’ voice telling her stories. And, by the time the princess was all grown up, she had _not_ turned into a queen. Try as her parents might, they could not seem to find a right fit for her in the company of other almost-kings and almost-queens. She was sad to be making them sad, but there was something like a fire in her chest that kept her apart from the others. And she didn’t want to put it out simply in order to be like them.

 

“The boy with the magic eyes agreed with her when she told him about her thoughts in her letters. They still wrote to each other every week, in secret, and they knew everything about each other. But as wonderful as the letters were, the princess wanted her friend back; she wanted to dance under the moon with somebody again. So the boy made a promise to meet her one day, and she clung to that coming day like a birthday. But when she went down to their spot on the beach that night, she did not find a boy with magic eyes. Instead, a man stood there, both a stranger and as familiar as her own reflection. He remembered every dance she’d taught him, and when they’d danced them all they began to make up their own dances. They met the night after that. And the night after that. And the night after that.

 

“On the fifth night, the man with the magic eyes told her of his newest plans for the future. They were, to the princess, like a dream coming to life right before her on the beach. ‘I wish I could dream like you do,’ she told him, wistfully. ‘You can,’ the man told her. ‘You have been. Don’t you see, Princess? All these years, that magic I saw in you has been building. You have been learning to dream, learning to imagine, learning to hope like nobody else around you can. You have been building a future for yourself that is full of your magic. You just need to be brave enough to let it free.’ The princess looked at the man with the magic eyes and realised that he had kept his promise to her all along; that not only did the magic in her exist, but he’d helped to make it grow all those years. She thought about all the possibilities of her future; all the ways she could choose to go. She thought about nights laughing and dancing with a boy with magic eyes. She thought about letters that had made loneliness and fear go away. She thought about the wonderful way his stories about his future made her heart glow. And she chose. ‘I want,’ she told him, ‘to add my magic to _your_ dream. I think I have fallen very much in love with you. Please say you’ll take me with you.’

 

“And the man with magic eyes smiled as bright as the sun, took the princesses’ hand and promised he would never let her go. Together, they made wonderful magic together. And…”

 

“They still do to this day,” the girls chorused with her.

 

There was a round of applause and some whooping from the listening crowed, and Charity laughed, bemused but pleased by the reaction. She stood up, announcing her intent to go and find Phineas so he could have his turn, and she was almost around the corner and out of sight when Florence Martin called to her.

 

“Mrs Barnum? Was that…” The younger woman hesitated, her sudden blush showing up vividly against her pale, pale skin. “That story wasn’t _real_ , was it?”

 

“Well, I added and removed a few things here or there for effect. I am, after all, a Barnum.” Laughter greeted her words. “But… the core of it _is_ real, Florence.”

 

Florence looked delighted, but a snort of disbelief came from another in the group. Charity turned to find Charles looking at her, one brow raised in pure scepticism. Noticing her gaze, he rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh, please. I don’t even know if I believe in this true love stuff at _all_. Now you’re trying to tell me some princess from somewhere met a guy when she was nine and stayed in love with him for all those years? Through just the help of letters?”

 

“They only really fell in love when they were a bit older,” Charity corrected, a smile twitching at her lips. “They were still only best friends when she went off to school at twelve.”

 

“There’s still a _long_ time between fifteen, or whatever, and the time you die when you’re old,” Charles countered, crossing his arms. “I just don’t buy the fact that they stayed in love _all that time_. Truly, fully in love? Not happening. I’ll believe it when I talk to the people themselves. I take it you know them?”

 

“I do,” Charity said, still smiling.

 

Charles snorted in amused disbelief again. “Right. So what happened to them? This princess and the boy with the magic eyes?”

 

“She got given the space to dream like she never had before, and got given every gift she ever wanted, and some she didn’t even have to want. And he…” Her smile widened to a knowing grin. “He started something new and magical that had never been done before. A show that made the world catch its breath. And, in order to do it, he went around and found people who had magic locked away inside of them. And he helped set that magic free for them, just like he did for that princess.” Charles’ face had turned into one of wide-eyed realisation and shock. “He also convinced another prince to run away from his kingdom like he’d convinced the princess to run away from hers.” Charity winked at Phillip, who let out a startled, delighted laugh. Charity laughed along and turned once again to go and find her husband. “And, Mr Stratton?” she called over her shoulder, still amused by the stunned silence, “I promise you with everything I am that I love him more now than I did when I was fifteen. Truly, fully, dearly love him.”

 

The moon was large and bright outside, painting the world dreamy and magical. She found Phineas beside the elephants, talking in a low voice to them.

 

“They got a little spooked; just came to make sure they were okay,” he told her softly when she joined his side.

 

“It’s your turn to tell the story,” she told him. He patted the trunks goodbye with the tips of his bandaged hand and started back to the tent with her, surprised when she pulled him to a stop. “I think… they can wait a moment longer. I’d like a dance.”

 

Phineas laughed at her, delighted and warm, and then made an elaborate bow before offering her his hand. She held his wrist instead, careful of his injuries, and for a while they turned lazily under the moonlight, silent and content. It felt altogether different and completely the same as the first time they’d done it, and Charity marvelled yet again at the magic that followed the man she could call hers. A movement caught her eye, and she turned to find the flap to the tent pulled open, a dozen silhouettes in the space peering out to watch them.

 

“We have an audience,” she whispered in her husband’s ear, words covered with laughter.

 

“Then we should give them a show,” he whispered back.

 

“Phin… your hands…”

 

“I’ll still catch you,” he promised.

 

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I know you will, and I know it will hurt.”

 

“Some things are worth the cost.” She tried to narrow her eyes at him in exasperation, but he was holding her too close for the look to have any real effect. “Will you dance with me, Chairy? Despite the circumstances?” He had _that_ grin on his face, and the moonlight was calling, and so Charity sighed and shook her head and agreed. “On three,” he whispered, and every muscle in her thrilled in excited anticipation. “One. Two. Three.”

 

It felt like flying, every time. Whether it was beside the ocean or beneath a train or on a rooftop high above the city or in the foyer of a grand, childhood-dream house or to the soundtrack of the water slapping distantly on the docks and the gasps of delight of her children. Every single time felt like flying. Her laughter echoed in the still night, breathless with the exertion, and she was sure the moon laughed along with her. Phineas certainly did; his delight was like the oxygen her lungs missed as they propelled themselves faster and further and more intently through steps half-remembered and half made up on the spot. _This_ was the true magic people saw when they came to the circus. Freedom and dreaming and _joy_.

 

Later, while Anne gently unwound the blood-streaked bandages to replace them with fresh ones, Charity kissed every part of her husband’s hands that she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought I sat there writing this imagining Phillip's internal panic to be something along the lines of 
> 
> ...then you are _entirely_ correct. 
> 
> Also, please note that I firmly believe that Charity Barnum should be queen of the world, and I would give her deference and love with all of my heart. I just also believe that she is human, and therefore has flaws, and is wonderful enough to know how to compromise and communicate within a marriage. So I'm not 'shifting the blame' onto her in the slightest. Phin was in the wrong. I am simply attempting, in my flawed way, to flesh her out a little bit.


	5. Gun Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on me pulling a Sloppy Writer and messing with (fic) canon: I remembered that the original fic mentioned that the Jenny Lind days were “a couple years prior” and so I fit these later chapters into that sort of timeline, while patting myself on the back for being able to set the earlier chapters in earlier years/months. And then, once the entire fic was already written and chapter one was already posted, I re-read chapter six of the original and saw the phrase I’d forgotten: the one where Phillip expressly states that the protesters incident happened only “several months” before the shooting. Not a couple of years. And, to level with you, dear readers, I didn’t change anything in this fic because I was too lazy to re-write chunks of chapters. Perhaps, one day, my detail-obsessed side will get the better of me and I’ll rework everything so that the timeline fits. For now, I cheekily ask you to ignore that line in the original fic so I don’t look like a two-bit hack =P Apologies to the original author. 
> 
> **This is the chapter with mentions of gun violence and blood.** It's also the chapter where the Found Family feels start in earnest. And I was lucky enough, a few days ago, to stumble upon [this spectacular piece of fanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360760), which does the found family thing so well I felt all choked up and cotton-candy inside. Do yourselves a favour and read it, please.

During the school holidays of the year she was fourteen, Charity’s parents had taken her to see a performance of Shakespeare’s _Macbeth._ The show had been long, and the real plot beyond her, and for the most part the night was a wash of murky half-memories and a jumbled plot. But staring at her hands that morning, she’d suddenly remembered with painful clarity Lady Macbeth’s frantic attempts to wash off blood that had not really been there. Charity’s hands were clean — rubbed pink with the force she’d used — but she could still swear she could feel them coated in the warm stickiness of Phineas’ blood.

 

There had been so very much of it.

 

She’d thought, over the past few years, that she’d seen the worst of it. She remembered being angry and sad for the bruises the protesters had left on her husband’s skin a few years ago, never fathoming they’d ever do more than cause him deep aches for a few days. She remembered holding him through that terrible fever and thinking she’d never feel him weaker in her arms then that moment. She remembered hoping with an aching chest that she’d never have to hear her husband moan the way he had when she’d caught him after the time he broke his ribs. Until two days before, she’d been sure she could never hear him make a sound that was more heartbreaking. And then she’d witnessed him crying out in pure agony, back arching off the sawdust floor. And then she’d held him while he slept, just a few feet shy of the brink of death. And then she’d watched him unable to breathe while men tried to finish the job they’d started by opening fire at him during the show.

 

_Out, damned spot! Out, I say!_

 

It had taken every little bit of faith and courage she possessed to tell her girls that their father would make it out alive when she’d just recently washed his blood off of her hands. But she’d managed to do it — had managed to take a gamble on her husband one more time — and had entrusted their hopeful selves to Constantine and Jeremy. The girls told her, when she arrived back home the night before, that they’d kept a candle in the wishing machine since they’d first gotten home, replacing it every time it burned out and spinning the machine as often as they were awake to do it. A mixture between a bid for magic and a candlelight vigil.

 

It had worked — and every time she remembered it her soul sang in relief and joy — but… There had been so much blood. For a moment or two, Charity had almost had to live without her lifelong best friend. It would take a while of holding him close to make the images of the _what if_ s disappear completely. Which is why she and the girls arrived an hour too early for visiting time, and why she had to firmly but politely bully her way to Phineas’ bedside. She’d warned the girls he could be asleep, but when they approached Phineas’ eyes opened and found them.

 

“Daddy!” Caroline and Helen both howled, and they raced to him before she could remind them to be careful.

 

They didn’t need much of a reminder; despite his best attempts, Phineas looked exhausted and weak, and the girls treated his hands like glass even as they both refused to let go. A few stories in and he was already looking more asleep than awake, fighting his drooping eyelids for the sake of his girls. But Helen very gently kissed his forehead and offered to sing him to sleep, and the three women held vigil over him as he slumbered, content to talk quietly amongst themselves.

 

Phineas woke again just as Lettie arrived, looking a little nervous at the stares from the hospital staff but also fully determined not to leave. She held Phineas’ hand, too, and scolded him softly for being so dramatic he thought he needed a hospital visit to complete the act. His attempt at a light-hearted protest was weak and pained, and Lettie and Charity shared a worried glance.

 

“I think I should take you girls to that vegetable shop I found on the way over here,” Lettie announced, still subconsciously stroking Phineas’ knuckles.

 

Caroline wrinkled her nose. “Vegetable shop? What for?” Lettie gave her an exaggerated wink, and her eyes widened. “ _Oh!_  Yes, please!”

 

Helen gave her sister a funny look, and Caroline whispered something in her ear. Helen’s eyes brightened. “Yes, please! Mommy, can we go with Lettie? For vegetables.”

 

“Lots of _vegetables_ ,” Lettie agreed, her tone serious and her eyes laughing.

 

Charity laughed. “Of course you may. Just please remember that actual meals still need to be eaten, so there needs to be room left.”

 

The girls cheered quietly, and Phineas managed a smile and a goodbye teasing for them. Lettie bid them go and wait outside for her so long, and as soon as they’d scampered out excitedly, Phineas seemed to deflate.

 

“You alright, darling?” Charity murmured, wincing as Phineas bared his teeth in pain.

 

“Mmm. Just… need… a moment…”

 

“Take all of them you need, Barnum.” Lettie patted his hand. “We’ve got you, and your family. Just take it easy.”

 

“Thank you,” he replied, eyes shut in wariness and pain, but exhausted tone sincere.

 

“Speaking of.” Lettie reached into her coat and pulled out a creased piece of paper, which she handed to a curious, surprised Charity. “A lady came by the circus yesterday afternoon. We told her we were closed, but she said she had to ‘see for herself’. When we asked what she meant, she told us she was Helen’s teacher. Said that one of the assignments for last week was to be called up to give an unprepared speech to test their grammar and oration skills. Helen was given the topic of _my family_. The teacher — Miss Heatherstone— says that she only realised a little bit into the speech that she should be writing it down; that it was something she wanted to keep and read again. And she read the little bit she managed to write down to us and asked us if it was true, because she came to find us to ask us if it was.”

 

Phineas and Charity shared a bewildered look. “What — ugh.” Both women tensed as Phineas flinched. After a moment, he relaxed and exhaled shakily. “What did you answer her?”

 

“We all agreed: every word on that paper was true. I brought it here because I caught Carlyle muttering something about you needing to hear it, Barnum. And I think he may be right.” Lettie squeezed his hand, gently, before she stood. “Read it,” she ordered, firmly. “And believe it. We _all_ do. You got a problem with that and you come fight with me.” She looked oddly vulnerable as she said it, as though she were opening her heart up for him to see, but there was steel in her stance and her words that seemed unable to be bent, let alone broken.  

 

“Do you want me to wait to read it?” Charity asked quietly as Lettie left. “Until you feel a bit better.”

 

“Hmmm. No; I’m fine.” Charity raised her eyebrow at him in disbelief and he huffed his amusement before groaning. His next inhale was pained. “Yes. Please, do wait.”

 

She placed the paper in her pocket and held his hand with one of hers while her other carded through his hair. They only had to wait a few moments before a nurse came around with a shot of pain medication, and after it was administered Phineas’ face slowly lost the pinch of pain. When he was able to breathe easily again, he requested the letter.

 

“You should sleep,” Charity countered.

 

“I will. After. I’m curious.”

 

She shook her head at him fondly, but obliged. The paper had been folded and re-folded often, but the words were legible and tidy. “Helen Barnum’s recount of her family,” she read. “The first part, from memory, was her introducing herself and her sister. The expected continuation onto details about her parents, however, did not come. Instead, Helen made an indication that her old family structure had recently undergone a change. The rest of her speech is transcribed, verbatim with grammatical corrections, as follows. ‘I now have a big brother. He’s quite a bit older than Caroline and I, and his name is Phillip. He’s really good at writing stories, and at playing spinning games through the air, and he can stand on his head for three minutes before falling over. He comes to all of Caroline’s ballet shows and is teaching me how to skip a stone. I’ve heard that other brothers pinch their sisters and steal their things, but Phillip would _never_  and he’s the very best brother in the world.

 

“I also now have an aunt. Her name is Lettie, and she can sing better than even some of the angels, I’ll bet. She knows how to give the best hugs. She’s our aunt because she’s like Daddy’s sister, and they can make each other laugh even on days when everybody else is sad. They trust each other with secrets and fun games like Caroline and I trust each other, and I’m glad Daddy gets a Caroline that is so wonderful and talented. The rest of my family… I don’t know if I can call them brothers and sisters. It doesn’t seem quite right, but there’s no other name that fits, because Daddy is like their Daddy, too. There are lots of them, and all of them are sensational. That’s Daddy’s word. They can do magical things and all of them love each other and us very much. Daddy helps them with their things like he helps Caroline and I with our work and things we want to learn. And Daddy protects them always, which he’s very good at. The best at, I think. Some people might think I should be jealous with all these new brothers and sisters, but Daddy has enough love for all of them. And they love him back. And Caroline. And me. And Mommy. And the best thing is that I didn’t even have to wish for them and keep the wish in the wish machine. It happened all on its own. I don’t think I’ll ever have to ask God for another gift again, because this one is perfect.’”

 

Charity wasn’t sure when she’d started crying, but she had to fold up the paper to keep her tears from making the ink run. She had no words; no way to comment; nothing in her to give except the outpouring of aching love and pride and relief. One look at Phineas had her give a sigh-laugh before she bent forward in her chair so she could rest her forehead gently against his. Without a word, he fumbled for her hand, and they let their tears mingle and run down his face.  

 

Phineas fell asleep with tear tracks down his face, exhausted, and Charity wiped both their faces and resolved to speak about the contents of the letter with him at a later stage. Phillip had been right; Phineas did need to hear it. But, even more, he’d needed to hear the unanimous response from his circus: _every word is true_. She hoped that their words would be enough when hers had not been; hoped that he would finally see how much he was cared for, and how he no longer had to attempt to do it all alone. He took care of his family, yes, but in return his family also took care of him. His _whole_ family — the whole unique, wonderful bunch of them.

 

It was, however, a few days before she could bring the subject up. Liza had asked him to try and start strengthening his chest by breathing deeply enough that he managed to push against Charity’s hand, which she was to hold half an inch above his diaphragm. It sounded easy in theory, but after a few tries Phineas had still not gotten it right, and his desperation and alarm were causing him to push himself even as the pain grew.

 

“Phin. Phin. Shhh.” Charity gently pushed down against his chest before she rubbed tiny circles, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

 

He’d started to sweat from the pain, but he shook his head, stubbornly, and then lapsed into silence when she refused to lift her hand so he could try again before he took a rest. “If even breathing is this hard, then what is the rest going to be like?” he said, so suddenly that Charity jumped a little.

 

Phineas was looking at her with heartbreak and fear in his eyes, and it cut her to the quick to see. “Difficult. It will be difficult. But, darling, impossible isn’t in your vocabulary.”

 

He didn’t smile back at her. “What if… What if I can never…” He shut his eyes. “What if I cannot even give you a whole husband?”

 

“Phineas Taylor Barnum. Is that how little you think of me?” His eyes popped open in surprise. “Do you think I love you only because of how you look? Do you think my love for you is conditional on the fact that you can _walk_? Or sing and dance in a circus show? Do you think, for one second, that I fell in love with you because of what you can _give_ me? Phin, my dear love, I love you because of who you are. Because you love all of me, encourage me and frequently give me all that is good in the world. As do your daughters. And as do your other family at the circus. And you will continue to be that impossible, stubborn, flawed, wonderful man we love whether you are walking or being carried.” She cupped his cheek. “We will do the best we can with what we have. But have faith in yourself, and in Liza’s optimism. Or, if you cannot, have faith in _us_. It’s time, I think, that you learn to take a gamble on a Barnum.”

 

“I love you,” he said, half reverent and half desperate. “I love you so much.”

 

“Will you do it?” she asked, when she was done kissing him and wiping away the pain-induced sweat. “Take a chance on us?”

 

“Well… you’re awfully convincing.”

 

“Barnum humbug,” she said, cheerfully. “And the best part is that it’s hardly ever wrong about people and what they can achieve.” His startled laugh was more of a jagged exhale than anything else, and he had to close his eyes against the pain and weakness when it was over. When his eyes opened again and met hers, she found herself smiling, broad and strong. She raised her hand just above his diaphragm. “Try again.”

 

And he did.


	6. Finish the Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks; the end of the journey. Thank you all very much for taking it with me. 
> 
> **Warnings** for this chapter: a very brief mention that racism exists and that slavery was a thing, references to past gun violence and a few mild abelism insults. Also, a warning that this chapter is over 15k, because the found family feels played a magic tune that my fingers were compelled to obey.

The garden at the back of their comfortable little apartment was not much to speak of, but it was much more than they’d had in the old apartment and much more than most apartments had besides. And with a bit of creative gardening on Charity’s part, the place looked as lovely as the girls could wish for. They took delight in decorating it with bits and bobs they found and made, slowly turning what some could have seen as dreary into the blossoming of a possibility.

 

It was, however, slightly odd to see that they’d dragged one of the dining room chairs all the way outside. Charity frowned a little at the chair sitting innocently on the brown, dry grass, checked the sky for any sign of dark clouds — they’d bought it second hand, but she and Phineas had spent ages fixing and reupholstering it and its brothers and sisters, and she would rather all that work and beauty not be ruined by rain — and then went to fetch the basket of laundry. If she was going outside to question her daughters on their choice of lawn ornaments, she may as well do it and a chore at the same time, she mused.

 

But when she slipped outside, she found the answer to her question awaiting her: Phineas was reclining in the chair, smiling widely at their laughing daughters.

 

“And _what_ is going on out here?” she asked them, affection and approval turning her smile as wide as the rest of her family’s.

 

“A pirate king on his throne is about to give us the map to his hidden treasure!” Caroline cried in delight.

 

Charity met Phineas’ grinning look and laughed at the scene. Caroline and Helen had needed no prompting to be incredibly gentle with their father, both when he was in hospital and since he’d been released. But they’d also needed no prompting to make sure he didn’t get lost in his own head, even during the days he’d been confined to bed. And since he’d been allowed to move around some, they’d been excellent at finding roles for him in their many games that kept him involved and laughing but also comfortably seated and resting at the same time.

 

“Is it a good treasure?” Charity asked, her voice hushed.

 

“Beyond yer wildest dreams,” Phineas purred in an accent that sent the girls into delighted peals of laughter yet again.

 

“Do you want to help us look, Mommy?” Helen asked her, tugging eagerly on her free hand.

 

“Well…” Charity hesitated. “Sweetheart, that sounds like a lot of fun but… the laundry and dinner…”

 

Helen’s face fell somewhat, and Phineas’ face also turned into a frown. Then, suddenly, he called both his children, beckoning them close. They went obediently and Charity watched in bemusement as they bent their heads together and whispered for a while. When they broke apart, they were all grinning a very familiar, very telling grin.

 

“Can we do a magic trick for you first, Mom?” Caroline asked, trying to mask her eagerness.

 

Charity put a hand on her hip. “A magic trick, huh?”

 

“Yes. It’s wonderful,” Caroline assured her.

 

The girls tugged the basket of laundry from her arm and made her set it on the dry grass before they pulled her towards her husband, whose eyes were sparkling in mischief.

 

“Ladies and gents,” Phineas started in his usual showman’s voice, but the next words cracked and then petered off into a little huff-groan as he winced and put a hand to the healing wound on his chest. Charity took an instinctive step forward, concerned. “Ugh. Can’t do that, yet,” Phineas muttered, breathing very deliberately as his body remained taut with pain.

 

“Luckily, magic also works when you speak quietly,” she jumped in, placing a hand soothingly on her husband’s head while the girls shifted, slightly anxious, just behind her.

 

Phineas’ posture relaxed slowly until he was once again at ease in the chair and grinning slyly at her. “Quite so. Now, kind madame, would you like to be dazzled?” Helen giggled slightly somewhere behind Charity’s back. “Firstly, place both your hands out in front of you.” Charity complied, amusement tugging at her lips. “Now say these magic words: fie, fumbly, apple pie, toads.” Caroline let out an unladylike snort of badly repressed laughter, sounding further away than Helen had before. Schooling her expression into one of seriousness, Charity repeated the nonsense with gravity. “And, finally, in order for the magic to work, you must kiss the magician.”

 

“Isn’t that a rather steep price to pay for one simple trick?” Charity teased.

 

“It cannot be done without the kiss,” Phineas shot back, seriously. “The kiss is absolutely pivotal.”

 

Charity heaved a sigh. “Well…If I _must_.”

 

She kissed him twice, just because she’d always loved the feel of his lips on hers when they were turned up into a smile.

 

“And…” Phineas dragged the word out, and then gave a muted flourish with one hand, gesturing to something behind her. “Viola!”

 

Charity turned and saw her daughters also striking a pose, one on either side of where her laundry basket had stood a few moments ago. Now, it was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Your washing has vanished!” Helen cried dramatically.

 

“Oh, ah- _ha_ ,” Charity replied, a laugh bubbling whole and warm from her body. “I _see_.”

 

“Now you can play with us,” Helen added, brightly, while Caroline shot her a charming look.

 

“I suppose I can, yes,” Charity agreed, giving in to the inevitable with only slight concern about everything getting done on time for bed. “Let’s get ready for a treasure hunt.”

 

Phineas led them on a merry adventure of words that turned the little garden into an entirely new world. By the time the sun had properly set the three of them were tired, dusty and a little sore from laughing so hard. Phineas gestured them closer for their final clue, his face seemingly cunning as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

 

“Yer final quest,” he breathed at them, grinning with only one side of his mouth, “is a tryin’ one. Ye must find a maiden, fair as sunlight, brave as she is beau’iful, and assist ‘er in ‘er dangerous task of…” He leaned forward a little and whispered, “Hanging the laundry!”

 

“I know where to find one of those!” Helen laughed.

 

“Oh, do ye, now?” Phineas winked.

 

Charity chuckled.“But you might have to first un-vanish the laundry basket, or else the fair maiden won’t have anything to hang.” Giggling, the girls rushed to a corner of the garden. “Both carry it so you don’t drop it, please!” she called after them. “And the pirate king can go and lord over his kingdom inside,” Charity added to Phineas. He started protesting, clearly also wanting to help, but Charity shook her head. “Darling, it’s already cool and only getting colder. I’m not taking any chances with you and getting ill a _month_ after being _shot in the chest_. And don’t tell me it’s unlikely, Barnum; you _attract_ unlikely things.”

 

Phineas sighed but tipped his head toward her in acknowledgement. “Fair point. Fair point.” He took one of her hands and kissed the fingers, making her firm expression melt into a fond smile. Phineas sighed and looked at her with a begrudging sort of self-amusement. “Hand up, please?”

 

She knew it humbled him to have to ask, but with no table or other support nearby she was his only hope of making it out of the chair. Charity kissed him on the neck swiftly to try and soften the sting somewhat before she offered both of her hands to him. It was getting easier to get him upright, a fact for which both of them were thankful. But Phineas still wavered as he stood, still took a moment to find his legs, still had to mask the pain that most movement flared up in his body. And Charity, while grateful for how far they’d come, could not wait for the day when her Phin was free of all that still ailed him.

 

Once he was steady, Phineas reached for the crutch that he’d leaned against the back of the chair and started slowly hobbling his way back into the apartment, calling light-hearted encouragements to Caroline and Helen as they reached Charity with the laundry basket. With one eye on her husband to make sure he managed with the two small steps leading up to the apartment, Charity began ordering the laundry-hanging team. They made quick work of it between the three of them, and escaped into the warm light of the kitchen before it was truly dark outside.

 

Phineas was seated at the kitchen table, injured leg propped up on the seat opposite him for some alleviation of the pain, hands busy peeling potatoes. Charity frowned a little, wondering whether the act would strain his still-healing shoulder, but when she couldn’t detect any difficulty in his movements or any pain on his face she left him to his task and started her own. Caroline and Helen were tasked with placing the adventurous chair back around the dining room table, and then with ensuring that their rooms were tidy before they washed and got into their nightdresses and gowns.

 

It was comfortably quiet as she and Phineas worked side-by-side, he cutting and peeling and chopping what she needed while she prepared the rest of the meal. His motions got sloppier as time wore on; he still tired very easily, and the afternoon had wrung him out. She knew better than to ask him to stop what he was doing, though, and watched only for signs that he was being reckless with his slowly healing injuries. The girls breezed back in, elated by the events of the afternoon and in a playful mood that occupied them and left their parents as amused, loving observers and occasional commentators. Helen was in the middle of laugh-telling her sister something, eyes alight and face animated as Caroline laughed, when she reached to yank out a chair at the kitchen table so she could sit down with them.

 

Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that her father’s injured leg was resting on that very chair.

 

It happened too suddenly for Phineas to have any warning, and the surprise of the onslaught of pain made his instinctive shout loud and unrestrained. Helen let go of the chair like she’d been burned, jumping back in horror, but the damage had been done. Caroline clapped one hand to her mouth, eyes huge and dark, as Charity dropped the wooden spoon she’d been holding and went to her husband’s side. Phineas had curled into himself, and looked to be fighting the instinct to reach for his hip, face screwed up in pain and teeth grit. The second noise of pain was mostly swallowed, but it still cut through the silence in the kitchen and straight into Charity’s heart.

 

“Phin?” Charity knelt beside his chair, heart still thudding with the shock of the moment and her growing sympathy and worry. “Darling, are you alright?”

 

“I’m sorry!” Helen gasped, her voice high and wavering. “I’m sorry!”

 

With effort, Phineas leaned backwards in his seat, breathing rapid and shallow. His face had blanched of all colour and his hands were trembling, and Charity felt her throat close up somewhat at the sight of him in _more_  pain. She threaded a hand into his, and he squeezed her fingers, forcing a taut smile in her direction.

 

“It’s fine. All is well.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Nothing to worry about.” He turned his gaze to Helen, and some of the tight pain melted away under the force of the fond compassion that washed over his features. “Oh, Helen, sweetheart, don’t cry. Come here. It’s alright. Come here.”

 

Sobbing, Helen bumbled her way half-blinded by tears into her father’s outstretched arm. Phineas pulled her close against him and murmured reassurances into her hair, kissing every bit of her face he could. Caroline made her way over, hesitantly, face still looking stricken, and then placed her chin on Phineas’ uninjured shoulder, curling her hands around his biceps. Phineas gave her a couple of kisses, too, as Helen calmed down into sniffs and the occasional hiccough, still tucked securely against Phineas’ side.

 

Eventually, Charity had to get up and tend to the food once more, and she soon gently called the girls away from their father to help with preparation, both to give them something to do and to give Phineas some respite from having to act completely put-together. It was telling that he relinquished the act of cutting the last of the vegetables to her, and she gave him a concerned frown when she was sure Helen and Caroline weren’t looking. He nodded at her, smiling very slightly, and she accepted the reassurance for what it was: it was bad, now, but things would get much better in time. Until then, they’d weather the ups and downs together, as family. And that was more than good enough.

 

* * *

 

For a number of days, the circus had deliberated whether or not to execute the plan that had tumbled into being late one evening after a show. There was, after all, a lot that could go wrong — everything from the minor misdemeanour of rearranging Mrs Barnum’s house into something she did not approve of to the injury or attack of her children. But, after many discussions, they decided to stay true to Barnum’s general life philosophy and take the risk. The troupe was divided into three unequally sized teams, the plan was refined, and then they marched en masse to the Barnum’s apartment on the Saturday morning.

 

The Barnums were understandably surprised to see the entire circus on their doorstep, but Mrs Barnum set about finding a way to squash everybody into their sitting room without missing a beat. Barnum himself just looked as delighted as his children were to see them all, and the plan was very quickly put in danger of being completely derailed by them simply spending the whole day packed like sardines into the Barnum living room, spending merry time together. Many of them hadn’t seen Barnum as often as Anne had, and although she, Lettie and Phillip had always done their best to deliver thorough reports on how he was improving, it was still a joyous relief for some to _see_ that he was not only alive but very undeniably _Barnum_ ; wide smile, alight eyes and the ability to make them laugh and relax at any turn.

 

Phillip finally reigned the reunion festivities in and set about explaining the plan to the Barnums. “One group is going to take Helen and Caroline for a day at the beach,” Phillip said, and then had to pause as the enthusiasm of the girls washed over them like a tidal wave. “Yes, I _am_ part of that group,” he winked, and sent them into more exclamations of delight. “A second group is taking Charity to a place where she is going to be made to do _nothing_ but relax for the whole day, and the rest of us will stay here and have P.T. tell us what chores need to be done. So that you don’t come home from relaxing to a double load of work,” Phillip explained to Mrs Barnum.  

 

“Oh, Phillip…” Mrs Barnum looked a little floored; equal parts surprised and overflowing with affection and gratitude. “Everybody… _thank_ you. That’s so very kind. But I… I cannot ask you to clean my home for me, really. Please, do take the girls out for the day — that would be so wonderful. But I don’t need to be —”

 

“I think the full plan is excellent and shouldn’t be given any variations,” Barnum interrupted. His wife gave him a startled, slightly helpless look and he reached to take her hand. “You _certainly_ need a day off,” he told her, seriously. “And what better way to do it than in such excellent hands?”

 

“Phin,” Mrs Barnum started to protest, still looking unsure. It was telling, Anne thought with a soft smile, that _this_ was what Mrs Barnum was objecting to the most. Not the fact that a group of _oddities_ wanted to take her young daughters to the beach without her being present. Charity Barnum didn’t even think twice about trusting them.

 

“Please?” Barnum asked his wife, voice gentle.

 

That one word was all it took to drain the rest of the reticence from Mrs Barnum, and it wasn’t long before she was handing over her daughters to Phillip and letting herself be handed over and whisked away by Lettie. Barnum kissed all three of them goodbye, still looking utterly delighted, and then turned to the remaining people in his living room with deep gratitude in his eyes and in his voice when he thanked them.

 

“We haven’t done anything, yet,” Anne told him with a grin before holding up both her hands. “Tell us where to start.”

 

There was something soothing about returning to mundane tasks that reminded Anne of afternoons growing up; something satisfying about being handed something dirty and setting it back clean and shining. The company around her was also pleasant; full of jokes and singing and little moments of silliness that made the time slip away as though it were nothing. The added weight of _who_ they were doing the cleaning and polishing and pruning and fixing for was just the cherry on top of the cake. Being able to pour some love out for Mrs Barnum, after all she’d done and how accepting and affectionate she’d been to each one of them and all the support she’d given Barnum, especially in the past month or so, felt like a very satisfying sort of achievement.

 

This was a sentiment that Barnum himself seemed to share, which was endearing and admirable in theory, but not nearly as wonderful in practise, given the fact that he was _supposed_ to be resting and delegating, not eagerly jumping in and helping at every turn. Anne understood the desire — understood what being around his circus troupe again must mean to him, understood how easy it was to fall in at their sides, hands and laughter at the ready, understood how men like Barnum had been working hard all their lives and found it unsettling to have to stop. But, when two hours had passed and she’d yet to see Barnum actually _sitting_ somewhere, Anne’s understanding could no longer keep her from action.

 

Anne found him chatting to Florence and Mary as they mopped the kitchen floor together, making even the usually painfully reserved Mary laugh shyly at his friendly teasing. He was leaning against the wall with his right shoulder, at least, with all his weight on his good leg, but, stopping to watch, Anne could still see how he wavered and had to catch himself every now and then, and how pale he’d become. She crossed her arms, surveying him and the obvious signs that he’d been pushing himself even when they’d all expressly told him not to, and after a while he sensed her gaze and glanced over at her.

 

“Anne,” he greeted, happily.

 

She simply raised her eyebrows at him, waiting. At first, he met her quiet reprimand with only surprise, eyes flickering around her face as he tried to figure out what had made her upset. Anne advanced calmly, shooting a smile at the Martin sisters before she confronted their ringleader.

 

“You were supposed to remain seated,” she told him accusingly.

 

Barnum looked vaguely guilty as he shrugged awkwardly with his uninjured shoulder. The movement dislodged his careful position leaning against the wall, and catching himself tugged or jerked at something enough that Anne heard him groan softly in pain.

 

“Mr Barnum,” she said, equal parts worried and exasperated, “just because Lettie and Mrs Barnum aren’t around, doesn’t mean you now have unsupervised means to undo all the healing you’ve done in a single afternoon.”

 

A part of her still warned against the horrific audacity of reaching out to touch an older white man, but Anne pushed it away and laid her hands on Barnum’s arm, grip gentle but imploring. Barnum’s gaze softened and he reached out to put his hand on the top of her head, palm resting against her temple. She’d seen him make the same gesture to Caroline and Helen a hundred times, and something warm and slightly startled and altogether pleased welled up inside of her. When had this man become _this_ to her — a trusted guardian who would break bones to save her? Somebody who was as part of her life as W.D. had _always_ been? Somebody she instinctively longed to protect, who she looked to for guidance and who she could sway with her gentle pleading as easily as his wife and his daughters could? She was glad there hadn’t been a single moment; that they’d all grown into this family in organic, messy stops and starts, because it meant there was very little that could ever, ever take them away from her.

 

“Please won’t you come and sit?” Anne pressed him. “I think you’ve pushed yourself enough.”

 

“That depends,” Barnum said, and Anne blinked at him. “Are you going to tell Lettie about this?”

 

She couldn’t help but laugh at him and the mock seriousness he had on his face. “I believe a deal can be struck, depending on your cooperation,” she bargained, and earned herself a winning smile.

 

Anne let go of Barnum and instead offered her his arm, standing her ground when he commented that the gesture should come the other way around by pointing out that they liked doing things contrary to convention. With a small laugh, Barnum slipped his injured arm into hers, and she braced him as he levered himself away from the wall and reached for his crutch. She assumed he’d let go as soon as he was upright, figuring that he’d want no more weight or strain put on his injured shoulder. But Barnum kept his arm in hers, and it took only a few moments for Anne to realise he needed the extra support; that he really _had_ pushed himself beyond what he was capable of doing.

 

Suddenly feeling very out of her depth, Anne kept pace beside Barnum as they made their slow, halting, jerky way to the sitting room. She was worried about standing too close — worried about accidentally brushing against his injured hip — but when she tried to move a little further from his side, Barnum staggered badly enough that she had to jump in and catch him. Anne winced at once, knowing the movement must have badly jarred his shoulder, at the very least, and found Barnum’s face pulled tight with pain when she looked.

 

“Mr Barnum?” she whispered, unsure and full of aching sympathy.

 

“A moment, please, Anne,” he forced out, and she gave him his request, holding on as tightly as she dared.

 

Eventually, he gave her a weak smile and a nod that they could continue, and she helped him to the sitting room and to the sofa, which he half collapsed in. His groan was quiet, but it still hurt to hear, and Anne hunkered down beside his seat, worried but unsure how to help. He gave her another smile, and this one less resembled a grimace.

 

“Thank you. I was… foolish.”

 

“All men are, from time to time,” she assured him, lightly, and he laughed softly before reaching out to squeeze her hand. She squeezed back. “Can I get you a glass of water? And then, if you remain here and keep me company while I fold the laundry, we can make sure Lettie never hears a thing.”

 

“Those are two very excellent suggestions, thank you,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye despite his pain-ashened face.

 

They chatted about small things and important things until Barnum’s exhaustion got the better of him, leaving Anne to fold and press in the peace of his sleep-deep breathing. He awoke just before the rest of the troupe brought his thoroughly rested and pampered wife and healthily-exhausted daughters back, and he insisted on rising to see them all off. Anne noticed Mrs Barnum giving him a slightly narrow-eyed look of appraisal, and had to hide her grin in Phillip’s shoulder at the sight of the naughty-boy-guilty smile he gave her in return.

 

“Good night, Mr Barnum. Goodnight, Mrs Barnum.”

 

“Night, Charity. P.T.”

 

Her and Phillip each got a tight, warm hug and a whispered, heartfelt thanks from Mrs Barnum. Phillip received a hearty shoulder clap from Barnum, but Anne got a kiss on the temple. It was, she realised when she saw the soft look on Phillip’s face, the sort of goodbye a married couple would get from their parents. Anne hooked her arm into Phillip’s, returned his joyful, at peace, full of love smile with one of her own, and then walked with him out the apartment block and into the street. The circus troupe had begun to sing and tease each other as they all made their way back, and Anne marvelled at how _big_ the sensation of being at home could make her feel inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Phillip had been the one to suggest keeping work, even verbal planning, away from P.T. for the first few weeks of his recovery. He’d been around the older man long enough to _know_ that P.T. would sooner disregard his own health for the sake of the circus than learn to balance recovery and the part he had to play in decision-making. And that knowledge had been severely added to in all the wrong ways by the secrets that Liza and Charity had let out of the bag in the hospital. He’d _somehow_ managed to convince Barnum of his decision for about two weeks, which wasn’t as long as he would have hoped, but was still two weeks of complete rest that should count for _something_. Ever since Barnum had started insisting on being back in the loop, Phillip had taken it upon himself to get the reports and paperwork and even newspaper clippings to the Barnum apartment every morning.

 

They easily got into a routine: Phillip would take the necessary work home with him from the circus the night before, would wake up slightly earlier in the morning and do his personal tasks and errands, and would make it to the Barnum house just in time to say good morning and goodbye to Helen and Caroline as they left for school. Barnum and he would conduct business, and he’d then head to the circus for the rest of the afternoon before starting the cycle all over again.

 

About seven weeks after the shooting, Liza gave Barnum the go-ahead to start travelling to the circus again daily, knowing full well that attempting to keep him imprisoned at home would do more harm than good. He was given a strict list of instructions to adhere to — one that began with the order that the carriage taking him to the docks had to stop _no more_ than five feet from the circus tent — and Phillip, Lettie, Anne and Charity took up their roles as enforcers with aplomb. Every now and then, however, even their combined force and P.T.’s general attempts to be good couldn’t stop the ringmaster from being confined to a bed for a day or two.

 

Phillip knew it would be one of _those_ days when the early morning knock on the caravan-office door revealed a very tired-looking Charity.

 

“Oh, no,” he sighed, his stomach plummeting in sympathy. “Bad?”

 

He winced at her brittle smile. “He barely slept the whole night. We’re not sure what happened. He was fine, and then the pain started just before bed and… just worsened. He can still barely move, this morning.”

 

Phillip sighed and pulled Charity in for a long hug, gripping her tight for his sake as well as hers. “Helen and Caroline?”

 

“They’re fine. Worried, but fine.” She pulled back and gave him a more genuine smile. “They want to go and pick him some flowers after school.” Phillip found himself smiling at the mental image, and nodded his approval. Anything from those girls would brighten P.T.’s day, no matter how much pain he was still in. “I’ve asked Bella to ask Liza to meet with me a bit later. I’m not sure she can do anything but… I need to _try_. I have some errands in town to fill my time until then.”

 

Phillip nodded. “Should I… I mean, I can… go sit with him? Not to work; I’ll leave that behind. But just to…”

 

“Please do,” Charity murmured, heartfelt, touching Phillip’s arm in thanks. “And take the work. I’m not sure how _much_ he’ll be able to do, but the distraction of feeling useful will do wonders. And feel free to stay as long as you are comfortable; you know you’re always welcome. But also don’t feel obligated to stay until I return.”

 

Phillip shook his head, hugging her close once more. “You lot are never an obligation.”

 

He let himself into the Barnum residence with his spare set of keys not an hour later, treading quietly towards P.T. and Charity’s room in case P.T. had managed to fall asleep. A peek around the half-open door proved that to be wishful thinking: although P.T. lay with his eyes closed, his sweaty face was twisted in pain, and his breathing was too erratic for him to be asleep. Phillip’s gut twisted. The sight of energetic, enthusiastic P.T. Barnum laid low by pain should _never_ have been allowed to become as common as it had over the past few months.

 

On the other hand, Phillip was also perversely glad — glad that, this time, he and the others were allowed to take the journey of healing at P.T.’s side, able to help him and his girls as he firmly crawled his way back to full recovery. With that in mind, Phillip took a deep breath and pasted a carefree expression on his face before he knocked lightly on the door.

 

“Morning, P.T.,” he said, brightly, as though a part of him didn’t ache at the obvious pain on his business partner’s face. Phillip grabbed the chair from in front of Charity’s vanity and set it beside the bed, flopping into it with an air of ease. “Can we discuss the animal feed debacle first, please? The suppliers are getting snippy.”

 

“Did...Anand threaten you…in Urdu…again?” The question was dragged from some deep pit of exhaustion, Phillip could tell.

 

“No, but he did try and sell me the story that his feed will make the manure smell less repugnant. It’s a good thing you two have never met; I shudder to think of the consequences.” Barnum cracked an approximation of a smile that twisted away after only a moment. Phillip pressed on. “This is the situation at present, and what the different suppliers are offering should we choose them.”

 

Phillip went through the list of options slowly, and casually repeated himself many times so that Barnum could follow even through the haze of pain. Ignoring the little hitches in P.T.’s breathing and the occasional grimace or grasping at the blanket was difficult, but he knew he could not help by fretting. Quite the opposite, he was sure: Barnum’s quiet admission of thinking himself an inconvenience still hammered like a full brass band in Phillip’s head. He would do _anything_  to slowly but surely stamp the notion out of the other ringleader. Even if that meant cheerily pretending P.T. wasn’t near writhing in pain before him.

 

They reached a conclusion about the feed and then Phillip pulled out his own work, ignoring P.T. as he would were they in their shared office. It took a few moments, but eventually Barnum asked him whether they had more business to attend to.

 

“Not right now,” Phillip answered, honestly. He’d keep the rest of Barnum’s work for when the man had rested some more. “But Charity gave me permission to stay and work here. So…”

 

He shrugged, blasé, and returned to the papers balancing precariously in his lap. He was trying so hard not to focus on P.T. that the heavy hand on his shoulder took him by surprise. He flickered his eyes to P.T.’s face and was met by a wrung-out but genuine smile of thanks. Phillip was about to gently brush it off when P.T.’s hand travelled, laboriously, a few inches more, fingers curling in a squeeze at the back of Phillip’s neck.

 

The gesture floored Phillip Carlyle to blank-minded shock.

 

How often had he watched his father’s friends give that gesture to their sons at a social gathering? How many times since he’d figured out the subtle glory and honour that the public neck-squeeze brought in their upperclass society had he enviously seen it bestowed upon his peers and wished he was in their place? That neck-squeeze represented, to his old circle, the ultimate refined boast; a way for a man to be subtle and quiet and yet prove to every eye in the room that his pride and affection went unquestionably towards his son. He’d thought, after every play was deemed a success and his father stood at his side as they greeted face after face, that any of the next moments would be the one in which he’d finally get _his_ public acknowledgement of identity and pride. But it never came. Not once.

 

Not until that inconsequential moment in a modest little apartment, in which he’d done nothing of significance or worthy of praise. Something lodged itself into Phillip’s throat as he stared, wide-eyed, at Barnum. Barnum’s eyes were pained, but also very knowing — that gesture had been done with precise intent. Without meaning to, Phillip laughed, shakily, feeling too overwhelmed to know how else to respond. Barnum’s hand dropped, weakly, back to his side, and Phillip turned his eyes hastily back to his notes. But the presence of that warmth and affection lingered long after he left the house much later that evening.

 

* * *

 

 

Angus arrived on the scene in time to see Barnum wave goodbye to the delivery boy before turning to the boxes with an expression on his face that quite clearly stated he was trying to figure out how to carry them while having one arm occupied by a cane. Barnum had barely placed his free hand on the topmost box before Angus swooped in, grunting his _excuse me_  before lifting all three boxes into his arms at once. It was probably overkill, even for him, but he couldn’t risk Barnum attempting to carry any of the boxes. Lettie may have championed the _save Barnum from himself_ cause, but the rest of the troupe was more than eager to take part, as well. It was easy for Angus, especially; he came from an upbringing where family was lauded as one of the essential bedrocks of existence. And he had found very early on that he very much enjoyed Barnum’s bedrock.

 

Barnum was giving him a little scowl of protest, but Angus simply raised an eyebrow. “You _pay_ me to be the world’s strongest man, Barnum. May as well use me properly.”

 

“Do I pay you?” Barnum shot back, stepping aside all the same and letting his weight rest more fully on the cane once more. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

 

“ _Carlyle_ pays me. With your money. Same difference.”  

 

Barnum’s lips quirked, even though he still looked a little put-out.

 

“Alright there?” Frank called, doubling back on his way past to eye the two of them. Angus hummed his assent, and Barnum muttered something about not making money if their strongman pulled a muscle and was unable to perform. Frank caught it and laughed. “Oh, Barnum. You’re just sour because you know you don’t have a leg to stand on, right now.” Angus groaned; it was too early for Frank’s ridiculous play on words. A glance at Barnum to see if the joke had touched a nerve made Angus despair; Barnum was _grinning_. Encouraged, Frank slung an arm around Barnum in order to secretly give him more support, and cheerfully added, “Don’t worry. I have a spare. You can lend it until yours is better.”

 

“Somebody should stop paying _you_ , Lentini,” Angus grumbled before marching away with the boxes.

 

He could hear Frank continuing with the bad leg jokes even as he turned the corner, and he tried to swallow his smile lest somebody accuse him of finding them as funny as Barnum apparently did.

 

* * *

 

  
”Should we…” Eng hesitated, glancing at his brother. “Wake him? Call somebody?”

 

Chang was silent for a moment, eyes carefully taking in the sleeping form of P.T. Barnum before them. Barnum was sprawled in a lavish chair they used during some performances, legs propped up in front of him on the top of an upturned bucket. This was the first time he’d been caught asleep on circus grounds; if ever the late nights and strenuous work had gotten to him before, he’d not let them see it until then. And Eng doubted that his falling asleep in the wings of the ring had been fully intentional, even now.

 

“Let him sleep,” Chang decided, quietly. “He must really need it.”

 

“Will the position not pain him?” Eng wondered, worried.

 

“He should be fine,” Teo’s voice said over Eng’s shoulder. The twins glanced his way, and found him smiling softly at the sight of Barnum. “But, just to help…”

 

Teo produced the pillow usually used to stuff his costume, and gestured the twins forward. Together, they gently eased the pillow beneath Barnum’s lower legs, hoping it would help elevate his still-healing hip more. Teo then shrugged off his large jacket and draped it gently over Barnum, stopping just short of tucking him in.

 

“Pleasant dreams,” Chang murmured as they slipped quietly away, and Eng echoed the sentiment with feeling.

 

* * *

 

Barnum had been fireworks and confetti sorts of high-spirited when Liza first told him he could leave the crutch behind and use a cane instead, but the novelty had since worn off. Lettie could not truly, fully _empathise_ with Barnum’s chafing desire to be able to walk without aid again, let alone join them in the ring once more, but she was sure she felt at _least_ half as desperate as he did. It ached something fierce deep in her chest to see him chained in his own body, and she’d found herself wishing, more than a few times, that she could _do something_ to heal him fully, to take away the pain, to give him his strength back instantly, to erase the melancholic, yearning looks of doubt he sometimes got on his face watching them perform without him.

 

She could do none of those things. But she _could_ help Charity and Barnum with the girls every once in a while. She _could_ continue to care for the circus troupe — _mother_ them, as Barnum had once teased her with soft gratitude and affection in his eyes — so that neither Carlyle nor Barnum stretched themselves thin to do so. She _could_ be the one to stand right over the spot where Barnum’s blood had once been, cleared away fully but still plainly visible to all the circus family. She could pretend it did not make her knees shake, a little, to be there. She could pretend to be as strong as they needed her to be, so that they could find the same sort of strength within themselves.

 

She could also stop Barnum from disregarding his own limitations in an effort to do better, help more and reach new milestones before his body was ready.

 

It was actually quite amusing to Lettie that he was trying to sneak around the circus without her seeing him — everybody, Barnum included, knew he was about as subtle as a slap in the face. But she’d allowed him his pretences, like one would to indulge a child, even when she saw he was not using his cane. Barnum was an adult, and until she gave him cause to scold him, Lettie would let him test his own boundaries and make his own choices. She did, however, make sure she had an eye on him near-constantly, resigned to the fact that he _would_ eventually push himself too far.

 

And, sure enough, about four hours after Lettie first noticed him attempting to sneak around sans cane, she caught sight of how badly he was limping as he moved from one side of the wings to the next. With a deep sigh, she rose from the chair she’d been sitting in and carefully packed away the surprise she and the troupe were working on together. Then she went to find the extra sandwiches she’d made that morning before going after Barnum. She’d had a plan to have a _talk_ with him that afternoon before she’d noticed him attempting to shirk the cane — it had now simply turned into a two birds, one stone scenario.

 

Barnum was using the furniture and the riggings and anything else he could as support, and was so intent on keeping his feet and glancing behind him for anybody watching that he almost smacked straight into her.

 

“Lettie!” The guilt was in his voice as well as on his face. “Uh… How are you this morning?”

 

Lettie narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t start with me, Barnum. You _know_ why I’m here.” He got a look on his face that told her he was about to try and sprout some witty quip or another to try and get himself out of trouble. “Uh!” She held up a finger. “I said no. Shh.” Barnum almost rolled his eyes, but did stay silent. “Come on.”

 

Lettie held out her free arm, and waited with raised eyebrows until Barnum sighed, deeply, and then took it. She used surprise as her advantage, and pulled most of his weight onto her in one jerk before she started slowly walking him to the nearest bench. She could _feel_ how difficult it was for him to walk; could feel the unnatural jerk of his body against hers, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

 

“Oh, Barnum,” she sighed at him.

 

He sat down heavily, and Lettie gave him some privacy for a few moments, knowing he wouldn’t want her to see any grimaces of pain he could not hide as he got himself settled and comfortable. When she’d rummaged around in her basket of sandwiches for as long as she could, she turned back to him, offering one of the extras she’d made.

 

“No, thanks, I’m —”

 

“I made it for you,” she told him, firmly pressing it into his hands. “Far be it for me, of all people, to comment on somebody’s body weight but, Barnum… You need to eat more.”

 

He pulled a face and started to protest, and Lettie pursed her lips and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. They easily went all the way around, and the bone felt fragile in her grip. He’d been buoyant and enthusiastic enough that nobody had really realised how much weight he’d lost — not until Lettie had been measuring out the cut-up remains of his old ringleader jacket, and it had suddenly struck her breathless how he’d once filled it out and how it would now hang on him. Ever since that realisation, she hadn’t been able to _stop_ noticing it. She suspected the pain had turned him off food, and that he hadn’t yet recovered his full appetite since then. This, she could help him counter — they already had Carlyle on an eating watch rotation, and it would be simple enough to ask whoever was on duty that day to keep an eye on Barnum, as well.

 

And, judging from the way Barnum was looking at her hand circling his slim wrist, he wouldn’t buck against them reminding him to eat. Lettie let go and placed her free hand on his knee, letting him eat the sandwich in silence. It would be alright, she reminded herself, firmly, as she chewed on her own bread. They’d all help, and he’d heal, and he’d be alright.

 

“I was expecting yelling and being forbidden to move for an hour, not lunch,” Barnum confessed after a long stretch of silence, picking at his second sandwich.

 

Lettie snorted at him, and bought herself time by taking another bite and chewing slowly. “I’m… hmm…” She tore the crust away from the rest of her bread, moving precisely, brows furrowed in thought. Barnum’s hand rested on her shoulder in concern. “No, no, I’m just… I’m not sure how to put this _right_. I need you to…”

 

“I understand,” Barnum said, quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make more work for you, or to upset you. I just…”

 

Lettie shook her head, fiercely. “Oh, Barnum, no. That right there is exactly what I’m trying to fight in you.” Barnum blinked at her, confused, and she sighed again. “I…hmm. Okay. Let’s do it this way — hopefully this will bring home both points I’m trying to make a lot more clearly.” She turned a little so she was facing him more directly. “Helen and Caroline. They got new dresses two days ago, and came in here to show us all. When you first saw them, what did you say?”

 

“Pardon?” Barnum was still blinking at her, looking a little thrown.

 

“When they put them on in the morning and came to you at breakfast to show you — the first person besides Charity to see. What did you say when you saw them?”

 

Barnum still hesitated for a beat. “That… they looked beautiful?”

 

“The dresses, or your girls?”

 

“My girls _in_ the dresses.”

 

“Mmm-hmm. And last year when Helen scraped the side of her face — do you remember what you told her when you and I were patching her up?” Hesitantly, Barnum shook his head. “You told her she was still pretty, and that the wound didn’t take _any_ of that away. And I cannot count the times you’ve sung their praises — about a new trick, about doing their chores, about Caroline’s ballet…” Barnum was still looking puzzled, and Lettie took another deep breath, fighting to urge to duck her head and look away. “Do you know that I can remember with… _astounding_ clarity the first time anybody said things like what you tell your girls all the time to me? _Anybody_  — my parents, people I grew up with, men in bars… The _very first time_. I was washing sheets and trying to ignore how everybody was still ignoring me, and this crazy man in a top hat just burst into the room and cornered me and took one look at me and said: talented. Blessed. Extraordinary. Unique. _Beautiful_.”

 

She couldn’t help the way her voice broke on the last word and Barnum, with large eyes, took her hand. She threaded her fingers into his and squeezed tightly. “I thought you were mocking me. And then I thought it was just a ploy to get me to come work for you. But you… Oh, Barnum, you _kept_ saying it. Over and over — with those words, and new ones, and with every action you made. And before I knew it… I _believed_ you. I believed you enough to not listen to a word you said or a thing you did when Lind came along.”

 

Barnum ducked his head away in shame, and Lettie gave his hand a little shake. “My _point_  is… Two things, actually. One: love breeds love. You have poured out things onto us that we never got before. This is home, now, because _you_ made it so. That means _you_ are our home, Barnum. And we’re _not_ going to let you harm yourself. Not for anything. We love you too much. And that’s your own fault — if you didn’t want all of us to love you fiercely, you really shouldn’t have done things to _make_ that love grow. And, secondly… I _know_. I know how long it takes for impossibly wonderful truths to root out the lies so they can settle in. And I know how many times you need to be told those truths, over and over, and over, until _you_ believe them with your whole heart. So I’m not going to stop, Barnum. None of us are. Not until you _know_ that we care about you. That you’re not an inconvenience. That you are one of us, no matter if you can ‘pull your own weight’ around here or not. You don’t _have_ to prove anything. We won’t _let_ you. You’re… Helen was right. You’re my _brother_. I won’t…”

 

She ran out of words. And, for once, Barnum didn’t have any of his own. Instead, he simply leaned his head on her shoulder, _still_ not caring that her beard scratched against his face, and clung onto her hand as hard as she clung to his. Her heart was the kind of heavy that came from it being full to bursting.

 

After a long, quiet silence, Lettie said into his curls, “Also, I’m going to post guards around here to make sure you don’t move for at least an hour.” Barnum groaned theatrically, and she patted his head. “You brought it upon yourself, Barnum.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Phineas had been in some pain when they’d woken that morning, but not enough to keep him bedridden. Charity kept him in check as much as she could through the morning’s routine, but by the time they were pulling up to the circus her husband was pale and sweating.

 

“Sorry,” he whispered to her. “I didn’t think it…”

 

He broke off with a low groan, and Charity ran soothing circles on his back. “I know, dear. I know.” She let him ride out the pain for a moment, giving the cab driver an apologetic request for some time. “Would you like to go home?” Phineas flinched at the mention of another carriage drive. “Stay here and see if we can make it ease up?”

 

He nodded at that, and she carefully helped him out of the carriage. She knew Phineas’ wish was to slip into his office largely unseen, but luck was very much not on his side that morning. They’d barely made it a few steps before the group of men that had seemed to be just passing by began heckling Phineas. Charity’s gut clenched in instinctive fear, the shooting and following hospital scuffle still too fresh for her to be able to calmly face a crowd coming up against her husband with such obvious dislike.

 

Phineas pretended to ignore them, even though Charity saw the flush of shame spreading across his otherwise pale face. He tried to push himself to go faster — to get away sooner — but his hip would barely allow him to remain upright and moving, even with Charity and his cane for support.

 

“Hey, Barnum —”

 

“Hey, flapdoodle,” Charles’ voice interrupted. “Why don’t you go and be stupid somewhere else?”

 

The protesters turned with a snarl and were met with the sight of not only Charles but a whole crowd of the circus troupe, none of whom looked very friendly. Deliberately, they walked forward to meet Charity and Phineas and while Jeremy and Constantine silently offered to support Phineas on either side for the rest of the way to his office, the rest of the crowd formed a menacing wall between the protesters and Charity’s husband.

 

She gratefully handed Phineas over to Jeremy and Constantine, feeling the cold fist of fear in her chest loosen and then disappear altogether. They were safe. Phineas was safe. And he’d be taken care of. The crowd of men on the other side of the circus troupe human wall became even more verbally abusive, hurling insults and slurs that were as unoriginal as they were without backbone. And, on any other day, Charity would have been able to calmly walk away without incident. But her husband had been _shot_ by men like those currently heckling him. It had been months of pain and slow, brutal recovery, and they still weren’t _sure_ he was going to ever be able to properly walk again.

 

So when one of the protesters said something along the lines of Phineas belonging to his show now that he was an oddity cripple himself, Charity found herself whirling around with rage in her veins. She stalked _through_ the line of circus people, shrugging off the hands that reached to hold her back. With posture that would have made her childhood governesses proud, she stormed right up to the jeering crowd.

 

“Perhaps,” she bit out, frustration and hurt for her husband merging into a roaring beast in her throat, “you would like a moment to review what you have just said. Because your ignorance over medical situations has gone past laughable and is now in the realm of shameful. I doubt your fathers would be able to stand beside you in any pride, hearing your stupidity shouted to the world in such a crass manner, for it insinuates things about your upbringing that no man wants insinuated about them.”  

 

She’d hit a nerve insulting their fathers. With sudden, black fury some of the men stepped toward her, curses already flowing freely. And then a shadow fell over them all, and Charity joined them in instinctively glancing up. And then up some more.

 

“Problem?” Vasily asked in his deep voice, tone implying that there better _not_ be any problem. “If yes, we can help.”

 

Charity saw the men glancing behind her, their scowls indicating that the rest of the circus crew stood ready to leap to her defence. These men were not like the ones that had come after Phineas before; as soon as they realised the odds were against them, they slunk off like the cowards they were with only a few more choice words and gobs of saliva thrown Charity’s way.

 

Charity sighed at their retreating backs. In the wake of the rage, there was only slight shame at her actions. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said, mostly to herself. “I shouldn’t have sunk to their level.”

 

“Yes,” Vasily agreed, mildly. “Next time, you let me, hmm? I don’t have words. But I punch very good. Also makes mouths shut.”

 

Charity found herself laughing a startled laugh and accepting the arm Vasily offered her to lead her inside. They could do this, she reminded herself. No matter how long and dark the journey, they’d make it. And they didn’t have to do it alone.

 

* * *

 

The winter seemed to come all at once, that year, settling in with bitter vengeance overnight. They were largely unprepared, and for the first few days a lot of running around was done to ensure the animals didn’t freeze while the winter contingencies were set up. It was all hands on deck; every performer taking on tasks they wouldn’t usually to ensure that the scrambling would not interfere with their nightly shows. And Barnum, Charles was sure, thought that the general chaos and hubub hid him from the watchful eyes that had followed his movements so carefully since he’d returned to spending many of his days at the circus.

 

That was one of the perks of Charles’ height; people often did not see him, and he was thus allowed to see _everything_ in peace.

 

Barnum had started doing odd jobs behind the scenes of the circus, insisting on the need to once again build the muscle that his time recovering had stolen from him. Nobody could argue with the logic — it was _unsettling_ to see Barnum’s old clothes wearing _him_ ; to see gauntness and weakness when Charles was sure he’d always been a physically strong man — but Lettie, Mrs Barnum and Phillip wisely set firm boundaries in place. They were foolish, Charles mused, not to make sure those boundaries were being adhered to in a time when Barnums’ circus — his _family_ — was in a tough spot and needed extra sacrifice.

 

“You shovelling, or being propped up by the shovel, Barnum?” Charles called to him from his position leaning casually against the enclosure fence.

 

Barnum jerked a little in surprise and immediately flickered his eyes to where Charles lounged. More worry settled grimly into Charles’ gut when the sight of him didn’t cause Barnum to stop leaning on the shovel and airily declare all was well. The fool really _had_ been pushing himself; more than even Charles had realised. Damnit.

 

“Come to help?” Barnum said, sagely, his words a pant.

 

Charles let out a derisive snort, pretending that he wasn’t carefully checking Barnum over for signs that elicited enough concern that he’d go and fetch Phillip. “As enticing as manure removal is,” he said, dryly, “I’m not interested.”

 

“Then why are you here?” Barnum made an effort to straighten and winced slightly, one hand instinctively going to his chest. Charles waited until he met his eyes, noting the guilty, caged, carefully-painful shrug Barnum gave in response to his pointed look. “Cold air. It’s…” He’d never admit to being in pain, would he, Charles wondered in exasperation. “Making breathing a… little more difficult, at the moment.”

 

“I thought as much. I’ve been watching.” Barnum’s look turned wary, and Charles rolled his eyes and then beckoned Barnum over, upending an empty pail and dusting off the top before gesturing to Barnum to sit. Warily, stiffly, the ringmaster did as he was bid. Charles produced the flask from his coat with a flourish. “This is an old family recipe. Apparently, Strattons are prone to bad winter chests, as well. It will help make breathing easier. I promise.”

 

Barnum’s shoulders slumped a little, either in weary defeat or relief at not having to keep up the (flimsy) charade for any longer. He accepted the flask with a quiet, sincere thanks, and Charles couldn’t help but pat his knee in warm affection. Barnum took a gulp, and then promptly spluttered, spraying drink everywhere.

 

“What…” he gasped, coughing and groaning and holding his chest. “What _is_ that?”

 

“Tea,” Charles replied. “To help your chest.”

 

“ _Tea_?”

 

“Tea is the _main_ ingredient,” Charles acquiesced. Barnum choked a disbelieving noise. “Fine; tea _features_ as an ingredient. Somewhere.”

 

Barnum coughed again, and Charles nudged the flask upwards in silent encouragement. This time, Barnum took a smaller sip. He still pulled a face as the liquid burned on the way down, and then he laughed at Charles while leaning back against the fence warily. It was less of a movement and more of an act of defeat; this close up, Charles could see how Barnum’s hands were trembling.

 

“Take it easy, Barnum,” Charles told him, softly. “There _are_ other people who work here. And, for all our wonders, all of us still have all our hands.” Barnum started to say something and Charles patted his hanging arm twice before leaving his hand there, soothingly. Lettie was having an influence on him. Or maybe it was just Barnum; the same _whatever_ that had made Charles follow him into his ludicrous plan before anybody else had signed up. The same thing that made Charles truly _terrified_ of a loss of life that wasn’t his own the night the shots had been fired. “I know.” He met Barnum’s eyes and smiled slightly. “I know. But knocking yourself sideways won’t do anything but add more to the chaos.”

 

Barnum smiled back, softly, and then handed the flask to Charles, who took a gulp before handing it back. They didn’t speak again until it was emptied between the two of them, enjoying the silence and the peace of company who _understood_ and the shared history of all they’d done and become since the day Barnum had first come knocking on Charles’ door.

 

Charles was just stashing the flask away again when two more of the circus troupe turned up, armed with shovels and the intent to shovel manure. Barnum gave Charles a suspicious look, but Charles only smiled and shrugged and watched as Barnum got, slightly shakily, to his feet.

 

“I know this is hard for you, but _do_ try not to make bad choices,” Charles called over his shoulder as he left.

 

He made sure to glance back to catch Barnum’s parting expression; one that split into a grin of familiarity and warmth before the full effect of the ire could fall upon Charles. And, damn it all, Charles found himself grinning back. And leaving with a lighter, less anxious feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with the empty flask.

 

* * *

 

At first, Caroline thought that the words were directed at somebody else. She even turned a little to look behind her, expecting there to be another girl just out of her range of vision. Katherine, perhaps. Or maybe Penelope, who had recently joined their ballet class and was starting to be tolerated by the rest of the girls as she slowly but surely proved herself.

 

But there was nobody there. “Well?” Elizabeth snapped, and Caroline swung her head back to the girl and her silent posse, realising with a thrilling _swoop_ that Elizabeth had been talking to _her_.

 

She’d just been invited to Elizabeth’s house. With all the other girls. She’d just received her first invitation to _Elizabeth’s_ house. It felt like a firework had just been lit in Caroline’s chest, warm and explosive and too big to handle.

 

“I— yes, _please_. I’d love to come! I… I must ask my parents first, however.” This was met with a bit of a sniff but nothing more; no matter what caste one came from, asking your parents permission to go to a friend’s house was a common denominator. “I can… my mother is with my younger sister, but I know where my father is. I can run and ask him and meet you back here?”

 

Violet suddenly got a sly look on her face, and leaned to whisper something in Elizabeth’s ear. Elizabeth’s head cocked to the side. “Your father is at his…” She waved her hand, as though searching for the word. “Circus?”

 

A ball of fear, as cold as the ice and snow they stood in, lodged itself in Caroline’s chest. “Yes?” she said, wariness turning it into a question.

 

Elizabeth and the other girls glanced at one another. The smile the girl gave Caroline did nothing to calm her fears; quite the opposite. “Then why don’t we all walk with you, and go to meet Mr Tavers and the carriage together from there? The docks aren’t _far_ , I’ve heard. Not that I’ve ever been there myself.”

 

“N— uh… I can just…”

 

“Nonsense.” Elizabeth’s smile was still making Caroline’s heart thump. “We will _all_ go.”

 

Trapped, Caroline could only nod. The walk to the circus tent was something akin to torture; she had no idea _why_ the girls suddenly wanted to see the place, or what would happen should their parents find out. Maybe that was why they insisted on going — they had an excuse to get them out of trouble, so they could finally appease their curiosity. Or they had something _planned_ ; a trap Caroline was helping them to spring. She felt wretched thinking such horrible things about them, but she could not stop, and by the time they reached the tent her hands were sweating despite the snow, and she felt almost ill.

 

Muttering a quick, “I’ll go and find him, you can stay just here; I’ll be fast,” Caroline bolted through the tent, the desire to leave stronger than she’d ever felt it.

 

She barely returned the cheerfully surprised greetings sent her way, too anxious to get Elizabeth and the rest of the girls _away_. Elizabeth’s scathing words from years before about the smell of peanuts kept playing through Caroline’s head, along with every other dig at her family and the circus and the troupe that had ever passed that girl’s lips. Eventually, Caroline spotted the tell-tale red — her father had barely taken off the new ringleader jacket since he’d received it for his birthday. Up until that moment, Caroline had delighted in it almost as much as he did. Now she just wished he was wearing a plain, black suit like all the other fathers wore. Like Elizabeth’s father.

 

“Daddy —” she started, and then noticed the cane in his hands and stopped short.

 

Liza had told her dad that he could stop using the cane all the time two _weeks_ ago. And, since then, Caroline hadn’t seen it in his hands. But there it was. And he was _using_ it; leaning a lot of his weight against it as he spoke to W.D. Whatever anxiety she’d felt over her friends melted away in the face of this new, larger threat. She thought he’d been getting _better_ . She’d thought that he would soon be able to dance with Mom again. She’d thought… She’d _thought_. So why was he suddenly needing the cane, again?

 

Her call for him had reached him, and he looked over in her direction mid-sentence. Catching sight of her, he waved happily, finished what he was saying to W.D., clapped the man on the shoulder and started towards where Caroline still stood, rooted in place. He was even _limping_. The sight twisted Caroline’s chest and throat.

 

“I thought you’d go make snowmen with your mom and sister,” her dad said, opening his free arm wide for a hug.

 

“What _happened_?” she said, her words slightly tremulous. Dad looked confused for a moment. “Daddy, you’re _limping_ again.”

 

“Ah. Yes. That.” He scooped her close and she let him, trying to remind herself that she shouldn’t cry over this. “Don’t tell Helen, but… I may have told her it was alright to be swung around a bit earlier than I should have.”

 

“ _Daddy_ ,” Caroline sighed, some of the fear leaving her. She pulled away from him a bit to give him an upset look.

 

“My _goodness_ , but you look _just_ like Lettie when you do that.” She didn’t laugh at him, and instead crossed her arms. He sobered. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I was…”

 

“ _Really_ silly.”

 

“That,” he agreed, with a tip of his head. “But not _so_ silly that Lettie and the others had to chain me to a chair.” He touched her head. “The cane is mostly just for in case, darling. I promise, I didn’t hurt myself badly.” She curled closer for another hug in relief. “Alright?”

 

“Yes.” She pulled away fully. “Elizabeth invited me over to her house for tea and some games. May I go, please?”

 

“Elizabeth Holloway?” Caroline nodded. “How are you going to get there, and get home?”

 

“Her driver, Mr Tavers. He’s close by with the carriage, and he’ll drop me off at home. In time for supper. I promise. Please, may I go?”

 

For a moment, her father’s face was hesitant. Then he smiled, and relief and joy yet again burst forth like the coming dawn in her chest. “Be back by dinner. Don’t fill yourself with cake. And behave.” He winked at her.

 

“Thank you, Daddy!”

 

In her enthusiasm, she crashed a little too hard into him, and felt a swoop of guilt as he staggered a little. But he simply laughed at her, and, appeased she hadn’t hurt him, she broke the hug and dashed back to her friends. They’d come inside the tent instead of waiting outside in the snow, and they were currently surrounded by some of the circus troupe. Once again, Caroline’s soaring emotions crashed to the floor, where they splintered and began to choke in pools of dread and doubt. The circus troupe were trying to be nice to her friends, showing them tricks or asking them friendly questions, and Caroline could tell from the looks on the girls’ faces _exactly_ how well they were taking it.

 

She wished they’d waited outside. She wished the circus people would just leave them alone so they didn’t _see —_ That train of thought came to a screeching halt before it finished, and Caroline felt so ashamed of herself she yet again felt sick. She’d been letting herself be ashamed of her very family. For _Elizabeth_ and some other girls. The regret was bitter as bile, and Caroline spent the rest of the slow walk to the group mentally asking for forgiveness and for the help to never, ever, ever have those sorts of thoughts again.

 

“My father said I may come,” Caroline announced as she reached the group.

 

“Are you sure you want to come with us, Caroline? You seem to have _such_ entertainment right here.”

 

Her words and her derisive look towards Frank and Constantine were impossible to miss, and Caroline saw the barbed arrows enter not only the men the look was aimed at, but a fair few others standing around. The atmosphere changed almost instantly. Caroline felt her stomach shrivel into nothing as her heart sank into her toes.

 

“I’d like to come to tea,” she all but whispered, unable to look up and meet anybody’s eyes. She felt wretched and dirty, and she wasn’t sure if Elizabeth or her own ugly thoughts from before were making her feel that way.

 

“Fine, then, let’s go. Be sure to walk firmly, so you can wipe off any _dung_ you may have stepped in, everybody.”

 

Caroline felt herself curl inwards. Eyes were flickering to her, full of concern, but she could not meet the gazes. What could they do, anyway? Risk trouble by yelling at the little girls of important, rich men?

 

“Caroline,” Phillip whispered from somewhere to her left, his voice unbearably sympathetic, and Caroline shook her head, hard.

 

Violet leaned in to say something at Elizabeth again, and although her words were quiet, Elizabeth’s reply was not.

 

“Oh, I know, Vi, but we need to also let those who envy us —”

 

Caroline didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Her head snapped up, incredulous anger suddenly alighting in her chest.

 

“Envy?” she said, startling Elizabeth into silence. The word was so _preposterous_ that she had to repeat it once more. “ _Envy_?”

 

Every eye was on her, now, but she’d ceased to care so much. Had Elizabeth not used _that_ word, Caroline would have gone with her, meek and miserable, and would have grovelled to fit in for the afternoon. But the veil had been ripped off completely, and the sight of what Elizabeth thought Caroline thought of her was so repulsive that she could no longer keep in line.

 

“I,” Caroline said, voice steady and as derisive as Elizabeth’s remarks had been, “do _not_ envy you, Elizabeth Holloway. Your father may be rich, and your house may be large and full of pretty things but I’ve listened to the stories you tell, and not a single one of them are about what you and your father _do_ together. He always _buys_ you things, but has he ever gone hunting through meadows for your lost favourite ribbon? Has he chased away the monsters in your closet? Has he made games to keep you happy, read your favourite story so many times he can say it without the book? Does he know what you’re doing in ballet and still spin you around even though you’re probably too old to be and say sorry and let you try again and again, even when you make a mess?” All the girls were staring at her, open-mouthed. Caroline jutted her chin out. “I want to be your friend because not being so means I get hurt by your words. I want to be your friend so we can share things, not just ballet. I want to be your friend to give you a chance to be _nice_. But I do _not_ envy you. You have _nothing_ that I desperately want to have. You have _nothing_ I don’t have. Quite the contrary, _actually_.”

 

Somebody — she thought it may have been Charles — whistled softly in amused respect. Caroline kept her head high. “I would like to come to tea to spend time with you and the others,” she said, calmly. “But know that I am not coming as a stray. If you cannot accept that, I will decline and happily remain here for the afternoon. With my _family_.”  

 

Caroline stared an incredulous, wordless Elizabeth Holloway down, barely blinking as she waited for a response. She was at once terrified and fearless, mortified and vindicated, sure and full of doubts. Elizabeth’s face coloured and she spun away without a word, marching out of the tent. The rest of the girls, unsure, exchanged looks and then scuttled after her. Caroline stared after them, as unsure as they were whether her invitation had been revoked.

 

There was suddenly a kiss on her forehead. Phillip. He was grinning so widely at her, his eyes were crinkling. “Go on,” he said. At her unsure look, he nodded. “You’re only going to change their minds if you’re their friends _and_ you don’t change to suit them. Maybe they’re the kind who can’t be changed. Then you stay away and let them be. But… maybe there’s time to gently show them they’re wrong, just by being the sort of friend they’ve never had before.” He winked. “Just make sure she sees you eating _two_ slices of cake.”

 

Caroline laughed, hugged him quickly, and then ran after the other girls, a grin as wide as Phillip’s still on her face.

 

* * *

 

 

W.D. was close enough to see the pile of hastily-stacked props topple over towards Phillip, but too far away to stop their collision. Barnum, by contrast, was right beside Phillip when a metal baton glanced off the younger man’s head, and had quick enough reflexes to catch him as he crumpled from the impact.

 

“Phillip!” Carlyle lay, boneless, in Barnum’s arms. Barnum looked around, caught W.D.’s startled gaze and said, simply, “Liza.”

 

Nodding, W.D. sprinted in the direction that Liza and Bella had gone after the last practise. He hadn’t gone far when he ran into Jeremy — literally — and passed the message on. Jeremy took off at a sprint, calling the news to Constantine and Frank as he passed them, and the other two men also took up the frantic hunt and chase. W.D. then hastened back to Phillip and Barnum, sure the latter had simply lowered Phillip to the floor and wanting to therefore help get Phillip somewhere more comfortable and with more light for Liza to work by.

 

But when he returned, it was to find Barnum scooping Phillip up and attempting to carry him off. W.D. spluttered in his shock, and then yelled Barnum’s name. Not even a _month_ since he’d been cleared from needing the cane all the time, and he was attempting to carry a fully grown man using an arm that was still slightly weaker than the other, a chest that still sometimes hitched and a hip that was barely healed enough for him to hold up his _own_ weight. The _idiot_. The ringmaster took no notice, and continued to laboriously carry Phillip towards a table set up on the sidelines. W.D. tore forwards, but was too late to really do more than help clear the props and junk from the table so Barnum could lay Phillip down. There was blood in Carlyle’s hair, and Barnum was panting — too much like that night of the fire, for W.D.’s liking.

 

“ _Really_?” he said, to Barnum, who glanced at him, looking a little confused.

 

W.D. dropped the matter and set about helping Barnum press something against the wound on Phillip’s head. Liza arrived not long after, skirts hiked up impressively so that she could run, face set.

 

“Every time I turn around, somebody in this circus gets hurt,” she said, exasperated. “Will the lot of you _please_ gain a bit more self-preservation?” She sighed. “What happened?”

 

“Prop stack fell over — one hit him in the head. Metal,” Barnum explained, still panting.

 

Liza’s eyes narrowed at him. “And _you’re_ out of breath because…?”

 

“Barnum carried Phillip over here,” W.D. put in, helpfully, voice pointed.

 

He saw Liza’s eyes narrow, dangerously. “Right,” she said, sounding as pleased with the man as W.D. felt. Barnum raised both his hands, palms upturned, searching sarcastically for a reason for their ire. “Caryle first, then.”

 

Liza worked quickly and efficiently, and even put one or two stitches in Phillip’s head while he lay there. The rest of the troupe arrived in bits and pieces, and W.D. shifted to the outskirts so Anne could slip to Phillip’s side to hold his hand. Barnum hadn’t moved from Phillip’s side, but W.D. wondered how much of that was worry and how much of it was him being _unable_ to move, right then. Liza explained to the watching crowd that Phillip would be fine, but might have a concussion that needed to be watched, and listed some symptoms to look out for that the group memorised as a whole.

 

Jeremy brought a chair over at her request, and she pointed to it with a no-nonsense look on her face. “Sit,” she told Barnum. He blinked at her. She raised her eyebrows. “In the chair, Barnum.”

 

Hesitantly, he obeyed, and W.D. was more than a little relieved to see he had far less difficulty moving than he’d feared. He had, it appeared, stayed at Phillip’s side more out of worry than necessity. Liza, too, nodded, her shoulders slumping a little in relief. Then she glanced at Constantine and Angus and nodded again. The two swooped in, grabbed either side of the chair, and hoisted Barnum up.

 

“What —” Barnum yelped, completely blind-sided. “What is going on?”

 

“We’re taking you away from Phillip so that our yelling doesn’t wake him,” Frank said, falsely bright.

 

“Wh-? But — hold on! _Hold on_. He collapsed! Why am I being yelled at? _Hey._ Phillip was _hurt_. I had to help!”

 

“Like the time with the carriage crash?” W.D. told him, pointedly.

 

Barnum threw him a look over his shoulder. “Phillip —”

 

“How many of us are there, Barnum?” Constantine asked, mildly. “That could have carried Caryle and not risked flaring up one of _three_ major injuries?”

 

“I —” They’d marched to the middle of the ring, and the chair was lowered gently to the ground. Barnum glanced around him at the stoic, crossed-armed forms of his circus troupe. The fight drained out of him, and he sighed, loudly. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?” Heads shook. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh… Fine. Go ahead and get it over with.”

 

When Charity opened the apartment door later that evening, she was stunned to find her husband being carried in a chair on Angus and Jeremy’s shoulders. Phineas looked utterly put-out.

 

“Don’t ask,” he told her, shortly.

 

She met Jeremy’s amused eyes and, even without knowing the story, she began to laugh.

 

* * *

 

The practice had ceased to be one that was taken seriously the very moment Liza cocked her head at P.T.’s half-joking, half-desperately-serious request to join in and had then agreed that he could. Barnum was like a hummingbird, whizzing around and beaming and making everybody far too excited for a routine practise.

 

And Phillip couldn’t find it within himself to give a damn — he was smiling as widely as everybody else, excitement and joy making his moves enthusiastic but also not overly technically correct. Barnum played the fool more often than not, delighted to be back in the ring even for _this_. Everybody dissolved into laughter at least twice — some more than others; by the end of it, Eng was holding Chang up because he was _weeping_ with mirth — and as far as purposeful betterment went, the hour was a complete waste of time.

 

Still, there was not a smidgen of regret in Phillip — fond, bemused exasperation, perhaps, but not regret — until after the last attempt at the finale runthrough with new acts added saw P.T. _staggering_  and falling right over. Then the regret joined with fear and crashed into Phillip like a wave.

 

“ _Barnum_!” he barked, lunging for the older man’s side. “ _P.T._  Oh, crap, P.T. —”

 

He grabbed Barnum’s shoulders, and Barnum met his gaze. And burst out laughing.

 

“Phil,” he said, wheezing a little, but very definitely amused. “You’re going to turn grey before me.”

 

Relief made Phillip’s knees weak, while fear-fuelled anger kept his grip on Barnum’s shoulders tight. “Yeah, and exactly whose fault is _that_?”

 

Barnum laughed some more, his breath catching a little on the way out. “I’m _fine_ , Phil. Just incredibly out of practise.” He patted Phillip’s back, soothingly. Phillip had yet to let go.

 

“You went down like a sack of potatoes,” Charles put in from somewhere, tone amused.

 

“Barnum’s ass is falling down, falling down, falling down,” Frank sang to the tune of _London Bridge_ , making laughter erupt.

 

“Up’n attem, Barnum,” Lettie said, cheerfully, finally dislodging Phillip’s grip as she and Constantine hoisted Barnum to his feet.

 

He looked relatively steady, and only a little pale, and Phillip’s heart finally stopped pounding.

 

“You alright, Carlyle?” W.D. clapped his shoulder. And then, to Barnum, he added in great amusement, “I think you scared the hell outa him.”

 

“Eh. Will make it easier for him to get to heaven, then.” Barnum ruffled Phillip’s hair, affectionately, and Phillip ducked out of the way, scowling heavily.

 

“Drinks on Barnum, since he was the first to fall over!” Teo cried.

 

“Hold on, no — that’s only for when the person falls down _drunk_!” Barnum protested, still grinning.

 

A friendly argument broke out amongst them, even as they headed in the general direction of the bar. Phillip stayed close to P.T.’s side, still not wholly convinced, still watching his friend’s uneven gait with a frown. Barnum glanced to his side, laughed softly, and flung an arm around Phillip’s shoulders.

 

“Phil,” he said, softly. “I’m _fine_. Promise. I’m going to be stiff and sore tomorrow, but that’s just because I haven’t done this in so long.” He gave Phillip a little shake. “Trust me.”

 

Phillip nodded, suddenly feeling a little abashed. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

 

“Families, right? Who knew having one was such an emotional upheaval.” Phillip had to laugh at that. “And,” Barnum grinned, “if it will make you feel more at ease, you’re welcome to carry me home. You owe me, since I’ve done it for you _twice_.”

 

“Keep dreaming, old man,” Phillip said, and shoved a laughing Barnum off him. Gently, though. Very gently.

 

* * *

 

They’d skirted around the topic of Barnum returning to the ring for a show, eerily superstitious that setting a date would cause something to go wrong. There had been passing mention of it — things such as _I think you should only do the opening when you first come back to ease into it more_  — but nothing concrete. Even Barnum himself hadn’t pushed; had been content to participate in practices and slowly work up to old dance moves and lurk in the sidelines, in his beloved new ringleader jacket, during the evening performances. Phillip hadn’t spoken to him about it, but he had a sneaking suspicion Barnum was nervous about committing to returning to the ring, too. Scared that he wouldn’t _really_ be able to do it — that he would have it confirmed, once and for all, that the shooting had taken him away from performing forever.

 

But he hadn’t badly stumbled in practises for almost two weeks, hadn’t touched a cane for more than aesthetics for longer and was walking without much of a noticeable limp, even after a rigorous practise or hard day of work. And, as Phillip stood beside him in the slowly-quietening darkness just before the show, he had a sudden thought that maybe sometimes what one needed was a good dose of their own medicine.

 

The audience — a full house that included Charity, Helen and Caroline, because Bella and Vasily had teamed up for a new act that was debuting that evening — fell into total silence as the house lights went down. For a brief moment, there was nothing except the sound of many people breathing. And then the music, thumping and chanting started. As it rolled around them, Phillip watched Barnum’s relaxed, content face and debated with himself for a moment or two.

 

“Barnum,” he called, and as the other ringmaster turned his way, he tossed the cane.

 

He aimed a little to the side, and watched Barnum step out effortlessly to get it, putting his full weight on the leg that had been injured without pause. Barnum tipped his head in askance and Phillip, feeling himself begin to grin, walked the few steps towards him and then held out the hat. Barnum blinked at it, and then at Phillip. There was surprise and wonder, there. And a touch of hesitation.

 

“You own fifty percent of this show,” Phillip told him, trying to sound serious. “I’m sick of doing one hundred percent of the work. Time to do your bit.”

 

For one more moment, P.T. hesitated, staring at the hat as, around them, feet and drums pounded and music started to crescendo. And then Barnum took the hat and put it on his head, giving Phillip a wry-excited-assured-shy smile.

 

“And what will you be doing?” he asked, mimicking Phillip from the night he’d first turned the hat over.

 

“Dancing in the chorus, of course. Probably letting Anne swoop in and kiss me.”

 

Barnum laughed at him, and he clapped the older man’s shoulder, and then took off at a run. He’d never make it to the chorus line before the lyrics started, he knew, but he rushed anyway, skidding to a stop in the place in the wings he’d hoped to reach. From his position, he could see most of the troupe that was already in the ring, shrouded in half-darkness, and could make out enough of their expressions of absolute, dumbfounded shock the moment they heard Barnum’s voice fill the tent instead of his.

 

Many were so completely thrown that they forgot their next _woah_ cue , and Phillip had a good chuckle to himself. There was something bursting in his chest; something that transcended joy and excitement. Something like a _rightness_ settling over him again. It was making it very hard to stop grinning like an absolute idiot as Barnum’s voice wove, deep and near-seductive, though the quiet tent. What the troupe had missed in their surprise, they made up in their next cue — their shout was louder than it usually was, charged with the victory and celebration and joy that was thrumming through them.

 

Barnum may have been doing the same opening number as always, but this time he was singing to his family. The back curtains twitched as some of the troupe still behind the scenes looked out, unable to contain the need to be _sure_ they were really, truly hearing Barnum sing. Barnum rewarded them by putting every bit of emotion he could into the lyrics, winding them up with anticipation and then exploding into the ring in lights and fanfare.

 

When it became fully clear that Barnum was doing the _whole_ performance with them, one or two of the circus troupe let out an unscripted whoop of pure joy and approval. That was Phillip’s cue to rush back to the chorus line, still grinning.

 

Barnum put _everything_ he had into that performance. Forget easing back into things; forget taking it slow. He performed like he needed it to keep breathing, and the more he poured out to them, the more passionately the troupe responded. The audience was almost forgotten; inconsequential just that once as the circus family celebrated within themselves, a slightly wild feedback loop of excitement, adrenalin, victory and joy pushing them further and faster than they had gone for a while. Or, possibly, ever. _Nobody_ held back. Barnum was there, and he was spurring them on with his passion and his magic, and they grabbed hold of it and used it as fuel to touch the stars and create supernovas as they did so.

 

Phillip’s heart was pounding a mile a minute even before he really began to dance. There was something buzzing in the air of that place, and he didn’t want to ever do it the injustice of trying to give that feeling a name. They’d be hoarse if they kept up the uninhibited volume they were using. Nobody cared.

 

The trick of passing the hat around was uniquely Barnum; when Phillip had taken over, he’d written his own flare into that part of the song. It had, therefore, been a while since almost every member got to hold the symbolically significant top hat in their hands, even for a moment. And, this time, when it got passed around, even those who would usually not get a turn with it pressed fingers or thumbs or elbows or whatever they could to the object. Because they _could_ . Because something in them almost _had_ to. Pressing love and joy and protection into a piece that symbolised everything that had built their home and their happiness.

 

When Lettie finally handed it back to Barnum, she couldn’t stop herself from giving him a huge, smacking kiss on the forehead. Barnum, laughing, bowed low so she could place the hat on his head. And then he bounded over to Phillip, yelled something that got swallowed up by the music, and yanked Phillip to the front with him. They finished the performance together, both doing the moves, trading off and trying to teasingly one-up the other, and how much had changed since that first night Barnum had come to him in a bar, and they’d ended up doing something so similar and yet so laughably different.

 

The applause was thunderous, the lights cut out to darkness, Phillip was laughing breathlessly, near-spent and euphoric, and then his breath caught for a different reason as Barnum sagged.

 

“Woah! P.T.!” He caught him before he went down, panic starting to set in.

 

The troupe swarmed around them, creating a cocoon that hid them from the audience’s view, and they all hustled Barnum out of the ring and to the sidelines.

 

“Just… down,” Barnum panted, and they complied, lowering him to the floor as Frank started his act without any ringmaster introduction, content to be his own commentator. Barnum looked up at all of their panting, sweaty, still elated forms hovered around him and started to laugh. It turned into a bit of a wheeze, and Lettie put a hand on his shoulder. “Fine,” he gasped, taking in too little air. “’m fine. Just… winded.”

 

“And?” Phillip prompted, kneeling beside him.

 

“Ugh.” P.T. rubbed a little at his chest. “Sore,” he admitted, with a wince. “Not…” He jerked his head in a _you kn_ ow sort of way, and Phillip nodded. Not like the days of agony before. Barnum’s smile was slightly wicked. “Was… worth it,” he promised.

 

“Damn right,” Charles laughed from somewhere, and Barnum’s wheeze-laugh happened again.

 

“You okay to get up?” Lettie asked Barnum, and Phillip’s stomach wobbled a little as Barnum considered and then shook his head. “Need two minutes?” she guessed, and he nodded, gratefully.

 

He lifted his head, presumably to say something, and then his eyes looked past Phillip’s shoulder. Even though he was still rather pale, a sunrise happened on his face; everything lightening up into a warm, full, molten look of love and joy. Phillip glanced behind him to find Charity walking towards them, the mirror image of P.T.’s look on her face. Phillip got out of her way, quickly. Charity, entirely ignoring the fact that she had an audience, crawled onto P.T.’s lap, mindful of his left leg, and put her forehead to his. Phillip felt Anne’s arms snake around his waist, and he clung to her, as moved and as understanding of the fierce kind of belonging that he could see passing between the Barnums as she was. Charity’s kiss to her husband’s lips was quick and chaste and also anything _but_ , and ended with her forehead against his once more, her hands framing his face.

 

“You doing the finale with us, Barnum?” Charles said, breaking the moment.

 

Charity slipped a little further away, and she and P.T. shared a look. They both grinned at the same time. “Charles… try and stop me.”

 

Whoops and cheers sounded and, crowing, Charles replied, “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not in a million years.”

 

 

 


End file.
